1. How do we give ourselves permission to grieve?

    Even when we are better for the loss? Even when what we lost was wrong to covet in the first place? Even when we feel guilty? Even when what we’ve lost is intangible? Even when no one else could name our loss? Even when we’re alone in our loss? Even when our experience of grief seems so puny compared to others? Even when we’ve watched people be destroyed by not having a chance to grieve? 

    How do we let it be ok? How do we learn to be with it? How do we name it? How do we accept it?

    What do we say?

  2. I had the capacity of imagination to momentarily escape my own pain, and I had the elegance of imagination to teach myself something true regarding the world around me, but I didn’t yet have the clarity of imagination to grant myself the complicated and necessary right to suffer. I treated despair in terms of hierarchy: if there was a more important pain in the world, it meant my own was negated.
    — Lucy Grealy
  3. Hiatus

    Where I’ve been: Fuck if I know. Mostly I’ve been in this closet New York City landlords are allowed to call a bedroom whiling away the hours. Now, that’s really not fair or true. I’m just well practiced in minimizing. I have, in fact, left the city for the wilder-nesque a couple times and I’ve been busy. June was a big month for me and while I thought July was going to be a let down comparatively, it really hasn’t been and yet, and yet, and yet things have not felt like enough recently. My successes have not felt like the right successes. I am not ungrateful. I do not take the ability to survive in this city for granted. I am so very lucky, but I also am not really doing the thing I came here to do. The thing I dedicated so much of my life to and well, that hurts because it’s impossible to feel like you’ve not done something wrong, that somewhere along the way you did not make the right choices. I found out I was a second choice and that just always hurts. That can’t not hurt. Self-doubt is real people. I have the completely wrong personality for this. I am not good at self-promotion. I absolutely hate asking for things. I’ve felt knocked down lately. I’ve had fears confirmed lately. Forgive me, forgive me please for being a woman with confessions. This world is small and it is hard to watch people you were once set right next to, often set above, move past you and not know what happened, except that the impossibly quiet girl, got even quieter, stopped standing in the front, barely stood at all, that without an imposed structure couldn’t find a thing to be diligent about. The old things still plague me. I mentioned this on the phone to my Dad the other day and he acted as though he had no memory of those things. He just kept saying, “What do you mean,” and I kept saying, “I mean what I’ve always meant.” I am a hard person to love. It is nice that those who love us so easily look past our flaws, so easily forget our demons. I hope you’re all reading Roxane Gay. I hope you’re reading everything she writes. She’s a brave and brilliant woman and she’s figuring out the answers for us. I’ve been thinking a lot about how to be better at relationships. It’s been a long time since I had the infatuating kind of female friendship where you see each other practically every day and talk when you can’t see each other and know just how to build each other up and ask the questions the other person needs the opportunity to answer and know and want to know all the tidbits of how they’re getting through this season and I miss it. It’s been approximately never since I loved a man and maybe that too is worth a try. I read an article today about a woman who sent out over a thousand messages to men through online dating sites and received less than 200 messages in return and girlfriend, those odds are bleak. The ones you want to hear from are never the ones that call, are they?  If you’re interested in exploring this by going on a particular faded, talky aesthetic journey may I suggest some films: An Unmarried Woman, Hannah and Her Sisters, Heartburn, and Walking & Talking. All of this is to say: sometimes I just hurt. I think this will always be true for me. On the stronger days, I put on soft monochromatic outfits and sandals that are a little too high and go for walks around my neighborhood while blasting Robyn (why pretend it’s anything other than Robyn. It’s always Robyn and sometimes Lorde). It would be a total meet cute if someone looking at me didn’t instinctually make me want to cry. On really strong days, I write.

  4. No one stays for you.
    Everybody stays depending on their need for you.
    — Ahlam Mosteghanemi

    (Source: nizariat)

  5. Being easier.

    I’m doing the work of being kind to myself, more kind than I have ever been and, contrary to the ways in which I’ve attempted to be kind to myself before, I’m finding that making real room for compassion takes a bit of work. It is not allowing myself to sleep until the very last minute and then rushing about to get myself out the door clothed and with teeth brushed. It is actually about waking up a little early, which also requires putting myself to bed earlier. It is the magic that happens when you commit to no longer being late and suddenly no longer have to rush because you’ve actually given yourself the time. It is not about eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at midnight because you haven’t fed yourself in hours and it’s easy and it’s there. It’s about cooking yourself wholesome meals of brown rice and beans and vegetables in big batches to eat through all week. It’s about packing your-self snacks and books and band aids. It’s about caring for yourself as you would a child. It’s about not regarding your needs as optional. It’s about using the pumice stone in every shower and moving your body in the ways that have always made sense and calling friends and showing up for friends and asking them to show up for you when you need them to. It’s always about saying yes and no in the right balance. It’s the basics. For me its always the basics, and maybe one day I’ll have them down, maybe one day they will not be such deliberate choices, maybe one day they’ll be automatic, but right now I focus on these few and simple things, these ways to carve out space for myself in a world where I don’t always feel like the right fit. It only takes a little bit of self satisfaction to face the world, to weather the storm, to make mole hills out of mountains, to let the big questions of being enough and how, soften, quiet, murmur instead of pound. A little bit of pride in how you’re learning to care for yourself is all it takes. Choosing your-self again and again and again. I don’t trust it yet, but I have a lot of faith in it. 

  6. Do you know how much it pains me to not yet know your silence, to be unsure I ever will? 

  7. Don’t ask me. That’s your problem. It does look as though you ought to do something. Self-laceration in a vacuum eventually gets rather boring. But it’s your personal cul-de-sac, you invented it, you will have to think of your own way out.
    — Margaret Atwood

    (Source: violentwavesofemotion)

  8. There are a lot of books out there that dig in deep and prick real hard and I want to be able to take them in.  

  9. Can we talk about:

    How to find the others.

    How much allergies suck.

    How satisfying and juvenile “go suck a dick” is as an insult, also, re: insults, attaching lame to every day activities, i.e.: even the way you brush your teeth is lame.

    Abbreviations, how?

    Making choices based on how we’ll feel after rather than before, rather than right now.  

    How he let me show off.

    How that’s never a good idea.

    Only apologizing to the people we know will forgive us.


    How “I’m sorry “is always a place holder.

    How if I never hear the term “space-hold” again it will be too soon.

    Absolutes, how?

    How to write mother’s day notes that aren’t even a little bit condescending, even if only you would notice.

    How we feel about honesty.

    How people are obsessed with themselves.

    How you are also obsessed with yourself, but in a chicer, more anonymous way. (HA).