Why Haven’t You? Could you possibly? & Also F#%k Bezos.
The greatest gift my sobriety has given me is clarity.
The clarity, however, can only be if I allow the clarity to exist.
If I’m busy freaking the fuck out about the five billion tasks I must complete (some fictions, some facts) before such-and-such-a-date (what are days? dates? months? anymore), if I’m having one of my signature move nervous breakdown panic attacks about “the worst what ifs ever,” I cannot be present for clarity to visit me.
This morning, I woke up in a trademark Gruber flip-out:
Oh-my-fucking-god-I-still-have-cancer-and-school-starts-in-two-weeks-and-why-haven’t-you-called-with-the-new-insurance-yet-why-haven’t-you-finished-that-book-yet-why-haven’t-you-called-your-sponsor-what-about-that-I9-form-you-have-not-finished-that . . .
The motif here is “why haven’t you?”
If I am being merciful toward myself, I cease saying, “Why haven’t you?”
And instead say, “How could you possibly, you mere mortal?”
My plate, reader, is . . . how do I say this delicately . . .?
fucking full as shit. My plate spilleth over and my cups runneth over and all all the containers in my heart, brain, and body are spilling over and running over and bursting into dust and reassembling . . .
And when I get in this space, I become paralyzed with fear.
I feel like an utter failure at not one thing, but all possible things.
I begin to tell myself horror stories.
I replay scenes from the past and tell myself “yes, like that. This will always be like that.”
& this strange neurotic circuit is why, reader, I used to drink heavily of an evening. Evenings were just the worst. Evenings still suck terribly for me (in terms of anxiety), but a little less so now that I know my mornings will be clear. & less so because I have meds, given to me by an actual doctor, for some of this. & therapy. & Buddhism. & 12 step. & friends. I mean, I haven’t gotten to my self-awareness in a fucking vacuum. I have a lot of help.
And even with all the help I have, I still take repeated trips to CrazyTown,
where nothing really happens, where everyone is unhappy, where everyone is impotent, broken, and bursting with self-pity. I fuckin’ hate CrazyTown.
I hate CrazyTown even more than I hate Las Vegas, and if you know me personally, you know that’s a lot. (Like, friends know not to even get me started on Las Vegas. They try to avoid the city name altogether.) I would sooner die dead sober in Las Vegas than drunk in CrazyTown, though.
Today, I spoke on the phone with one of my very best friends, Kristine. We’ve known each other well for twenty-five years. On the phone I spoke rapid-fire, barely able to take a breath, as I explained that I have changed in the past 138 days & I cannot go back. I can only go forward. And I want to go forward this way: with compassion, clarity of mind, with peace in my heart.
So what did I do with my day? Only what I could bear.
Today is my 21st (and last) day of my current Ibrance cycle.
I filled out paperwork from bed. I went to a meeting. I wrote on an article with a deadline. I started considering another article with a deadline further out. I gave myself time to read some writing a Favorite Former had sent me (I couldn’t help it, I corrected the grammar/mechanical errors as I read). I smiled thinking about the free-and-easy day I had yesterday with friends.
I thought about what I would tell a student in my circumstances.
Would I chastise her? Would I tell her she had failed miserably? Would I tell her she wasn’t working hard enough?
Of course not.
To the best of my knowledge, this is the only life I am getting.
I want to love my life as much as I can.
I want to mitigate sorrow as much as I can.
I want to live with fewer rules as much as I can.
I do not want to be driven by forces I despise and denounce.
I don’t want a boat.
And I don’t want to go to space. (Fuck, Bezos & fuck Branson, too. Fucking flying to space to tell me “it’s dark” when we’re down here trying to solve actual human problems while in perpetual survival mode. I wish the fuckers had stayed in space.)
So I gave myself some mercy today.
I told myself to make some lists.
I made the lists. I reached out to friends. I wept as I saw fit.
I ate when I remembered I had not eaten yet today. (I have been living
in a perpetual state of anxiety since, oh, roughly November 19th, and every bit of weight loss you might notice on me has nothing to do with cancer and everything to do with the fact that when I’m stressed I “forget” to eat — I realize this is not good and am trying to be more mindful of my eating habits.) & when I felt I couldn’t possibly complete all the tasks I had on my “list” — at least not with my sanity, peace, and sobriety in tact — I left the list alone & came here, to write to you, reader.
I am just coming around to understanding that I am not God.
This sounds wickedly selfish, and it absolutely is.
There was this list of things I used to think I had control over.
There was this list of things I used to think were my fault.
There was this list of things I called “mistakes.”
Fuck those lists.
I’m starting a new list.
The list is shorter because it is more honest.
I have control over so very little.
Most things are not, in fact, any one person’s fault — much less, mine.
“Mistakes,” like death, come with the human experience package.
And right as I arrived here in my post, a friend texted asking (telling, really) me to come over and watch a movie with her.
Despite my lists, I think I’ll do just that.
Life is short.
Hang out with your friends.
Watch the fucking movie.
Even if you’ve seen it before.
