Following a prompt (something along the lines of “because I love me/how does love see me/what blessing would I wish for myself”) from Megan Devine’s Writing Your Grief program, I wrote this essay almost two years ago from when I’m posting it. Afterward I did buy both the t-shirts I talk about in the third paragraph, and a new office chair.
Shirt design by Walmazan at Woot.
February 6, 2018
"Because I love me, ..."
I sit at the computer desk, in the old padded office chair that is far more comfortable since I went after it with a screwdriver the other day to reattach the parts that had come loose. I still probably need a new chair, and I'll have to go sit in a bunch of them to try them out, because I am absolutely the Princess and the Pea when it comes to seating. I'm only 5'2", so chairs made for average-size people generally leave my feet dangling above the floor. And also I like a really good lumbar support.
So I sit here, and as I glance down toward my left, I see a tiny slip of paper there, a rectangle fraction of an inch, with a word on it: "seem". A remnant of a writing exercise from a few days ago, where I went back in time, selected an earlier essay I had composed, and cut it up into pieces. To rearrange my own words and see what else I had to say.
Rader wrote in a 4th-grade school assignment that he'd like to see the future in a time machine. There's a t-shirt I have saved on the website of one of those companies that prints them with a bunch of nerdy sayings. It uses the Back to the Future font and colors, and says "I'm traveling to the future at regular speed." I've been looking at it for months. I should go ahead and just order it. That and the one with the chicken on it I would have gotten him for Christmas. If something like that makes me feel a little bit closer to him, I should just do it.
Because I love me, I write. There's a scene at the end of The Breakfast Club, which came out at the exact right time in my life: 1985, the middle of high school. I so wanted to be Molly Ringwald, "Claire," the princess. But who I really identified with was Anthony Michael Hall, "Brian," the brain. When he finishes writing the one-paragraph paper he's composed for all five kids in Saturday detention (each was supposed to write their own, but they talked him into it because clearly he's the best equipped to do such a thing), he reads it back, and gives himself a little "well done!" punch on the arm. I feel that "well done" when I write. Not every time, but often enough. I know I'm doing good work, and I can bask at least briefly in the glow of self satisfaction, because I love me. Success for me in writing sometimes means poetic. Sometimes it means raw and real. Sometimes it means I've expressed something I hadn't understood before. Sometimes I write something wise.
How does love see me? I think love sees the truth: that overall I have it pretty much together, but sometimes I'm lost. I have an innate self confidence — so sure, it's almost alarming — but sometimes still I'm insecure. Love embraces those contradictions and meets me where I'm at every time. Love knows I expect so much from myself and counters that expectation with grace. Love knows I want to do things "right" and patiently keeps reminding me that with grief there is no right way. Love allows me to stay in my pajamas if I don't have anywhere to be, and play a few rounds — or sometimes hours — of a silly match-3 app on my iPad, and leave up my Christmas tree into the month of February, because none of those things is doing any real harm.
A blessing for myself:
I'd like to say 'that the road would be easy' or smooth or straight, but it won't. So when it isn't, I wish for myself the energy to keep going, the companionship of friends along the way, the strength to try again when I fail, and the keenness to recognize and appreciate whatever small gifts appear to help me on the journey.