Hard Conversations

For perhaps the 100th time in the past few years, yesterday I had to sit down with my children and have a hard conversation. They are 13 and 10 now, too old to avoid the major news. I remember trying to explain the earthquake, the pandemic, and the murders of George Floyd and Breanna Taylor and the epidemic of police violence. I remember trying to explain the Supreme Court, Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, the presidency of Donald Trump, and the anti-gay and anti-trans legislation happening in various states that might impact our family. Fucking global warming. But yesterday’s conversation was the hardest one of all.

Before the pandemic, gun violence seemed to be a weekly, almost daily trend. Stories of people killed by guns were so common that I formed a very special place of numbness within me in response. But even back then, three types of stories would break down my barriers and really affect me emotionally. 1. When large groups were attacked. (The Las Vegas concert shooting still haunts me. And the Pulse massacre… I can’t.) 2. When someone is attacked out of hate. (The stories of elderly black citizens killed in churches and grocery stores, every time a transgender woman is murdered, the stories of Asian-Americans being harmed on the streets…) 3. And the children. Especially the children. Anytime a child is attacked, I’m no longer rational. And there seem to be those out there who are determined to harm our kids because they know it will have the widest audience.

And so I had to tell me children the story. I knew they’d hear about it at school. How do I tell them just enough information to keep them informed while still leaving them feeling safe to go to school? (How do I absorb just enough information myself without feeling like I’m drowning in horrible details). They are supposed to feel safe always, but especially at home and at school. I can teach them not to run into the road or to talk to strangers, but how do I possibly warn them about this?

Two stories in two weeks. Two 18 year old boys posting online about their intended violence and then driving to a place with assault rifles that they legally purchased and barricading themselves in with a room full of vulnerable people and killing as many as they can. The thought of those kids sitting in there and studying math right after recess and snacks, their plans to be picked up by their parents right after school, their dreams about the coming summer vacation– a stranger walks into the room, blocks the door, and opens fire. I can’t. I can’t process it. I can’t.

And so I told my kids the basics. In a small school in a small town far away, a man went into the school with a gun and killed a lot of people. I told them I didn’t want them to have too much information because it is really sad, but told them they were probably going to hear kids talking about it. I reinforced they can share anything with me, and I asked how they were feeling and if there was anything they might want to talk about. They said they were sad but okay, and then went on with their days.

And that was the part that broke my heart. I gave them a piece of devastating news and they just absorbed it and walked away, no big deal. Either they have similarly taught themselves to go numb, or they can’t process the information, or they have already had so much bad news in their lives that this just feels inconsequential because it happened to people they don’t know and as long as it doesn’t happen to me, I don’t have to let it affect me. I don’t know which of those scenarios is the worst, but they all scare me.

Each generation seems to have the same problem in assuming that the world should be better than the way it was the generation before us. How is it we are still dealing with mass murders? How is it we are still dealing with the invasions of countries? How is it we are still dealing with sexism, ableism, homophobia, transphobia, xenophobia? How is this a world where stories like this happen? Don’t people learn from history? How are we still here?

On my podcast (Graymalkin Lane), I recently had the chance to interview the writer Ann Nocenti. During our conversation, she referenced all the times she felt despair in her life, from the Civil Rights Movement and subsequent student uprisings against the government during Viet Nam (a time where police used extreme violence against protestors for peaceful assembly) to the threat of nuclear armageddon (part of national policies to support American ventures against communism) to the AIDS crisis itself (where gay men died by the thousands while the government ignored them). There are a thousand thousand stories told before this, during this, after this, that inspired rage and pain and loss among society, and afterward nothing happened. People got used to their outrages and they got tired of hoping for change, so they went about their lives and time passed and new problems arose and another generation started.

And now here we are. Often when I right, I have a goal in mind. I have something to process, something to work out. But today, I don’t. I feel exhausted. Overwhelmed. I’m not even going to edit this blog post (my first in ages), I just want the overwhelming emotion and confusion to stay here. To be here as a time-stated witness of how awful all of this feels.

The world moves so much faster now. The news is never-ending. We can’t process one terrible story without four more hitting us across the face. How do we possibly stay well and out of the constant trauma? I can’t remember what happened a month ago. It’s relentless, this grief we are living with. There are so many of us now, and I want to believe we can get better but I worry that the best I can do is get by. Plan for this month with no assurance of a future in place. God, the economy and housing market alone. I can’t.

What will it take to change? History is viewed in years at a time. We think of World War II now as one big event. We forget the years of build-up, the individual freedoms and lives lost, the entire changing of country borders and history events. We think of concentration camps and Hitler and D-Day and the Berlin Wall and forget the rest. How will this time be viewed? What will these years look like? And will the vantage we view it from be any better than the one we have now?


I rolled over at 12:30 this morning and my mind drifted back into consciousness. My back was aching, something familiar at night, and I reached down to shift the pillow between my knees while rolling over, then smoothed the sheets and blankets over me to keep them from being crumpled in the morning. My eyes blinked open briefly, sensing something heavy out there in the dark, but not out there at all, but within instead. Having heard me move, the small, fluffy dog who sleeps at the foot of our bed jumped up and laid next to me, wanting my warmth, and I nestled my fingers into his fur as he collapsed against me. Mike, the man I love, lay behind me, the movement of his breath familiar to me, comfortable, safe. 

12:32. I knew automatically I wouldn’t be going back to sleep. I know my insomnia patterns well. Someone had jiggled the mouse on my brain computer and the screen saver was already off. I get like this when there is something weighing at me, something under the surface that needs to be expressed. Some worry, some fear, some anger, some sadness, something that needs to be released, that refuses to contain itself any longer. 

I thought of my son. I have two, and they are both always on my mind, but this time I thought of my oldest. He’s thirteen and a half and he’s asking hard questions. He has one foot in childhood and one in adulthood and it’s almost as if he is unsure where he can step. He knows he is loved and safe at home, but I have no influence on the rest of the world. If he is struggling in math, I can hire a tutor. If he is sad, I can comfort him. But I’m not with him out there in the world day by day, hour by hour, as he forms relationships with peers, as he struggles to find his place in a culture he doesn’t understand, as he wonders where he comes from and what he is working toward. I want to protect him from all of that, but I can’t. More than that, I shouldn’t, because if I keep him too sheltered, how will he ever grow. They don’t tell you about this part of parenting, or if they do, we don’t know how to listen. Who is he going to become? Who will he be? Will he find love, and will he love himself? And will I be around to see it? I sigh deeply. Of course I’ll be around. But what if I’m not? I have worked so hard to create this life, this home, out of the shattered and confusing pieces that make up my past, and I want to be around to enjoy it, but nothing is guaranteed. Nothing can be. We are all temporary. 

12:33. I adjust my hips. My back still aches. And there is a now familiar throb behind my navel. The tissue or cartilage or whatever is back there feels hard and thick. For years, I had a small hernia protruding ever so slightly behind my navel, but a few months ago, it started to get worse. I was supposed to get married to this man in my bed just two weeks ago, but a global pandemic and insane numbers of positive Covid cases made us reconsider and reschedule the wedding for later in the year. So since I had the week off of work already, I scheduled a hernia surgery. I had a consultation with the surgeon just a few weeks before, a man I had never met. He was warm and friendly and immediately put me at ease. We made small talk about his wife and three small children, and about my partner and two sons. He discussed his work as a transplant specialist, and the hard work he had put in to do this work that now literally saves lives. I commended him and told him about my work as a trauma therapist, and he commended me. He discussed his love of Utah and the outdoors. He walked me through the surgical procedure. A week later, two weeks ago from the time I write this, I showed up at the hospital and this kind and skilled man repaired my hernia. The healing process has been more intense, in ways, than I expected, and when I called to speak to this man, he gave me kind and warm advice. One week ago, I went back in for my consultation. He looked at the surgical scar healing and told me I was right on track. He remembered me. He asked about my children, my podcast. We scheduled a follow-up appointment and he shook my hand and told me to call if I needed anything. And then the next morning, he died. He went skiing with his wife, according to the news story, and he, quite literally, fell off a cliff. He died. I still have my stitches. 

12:35. This shouldn’t feel new to me. It’s the way of things. Just yesterday, I saw the remnants of a terrible car accident as I drove by. I do trauma work for a living, and the stories of people I’ve helped after traumas begin flickering through my brain on a speed reel. The woman whose parachute didn’t open. The child ran over by the lawnmower. The man who took a canoe to work one day and drowned. The woman in the grocery store who was raising her grandchildren until a man walked into the store with a gun one day. The man who shot himself while driving down the freeway. How do I carry all this down in there? Where does it go? How do I store it?

12:37. Yesterday, I saw a meme. On the top, it discussed an oil spill from the news. At the bottom, a sarcastic comment reminded people to not drink from plastic straws. It was a commentary on how we can make little decisions and hope for a wider impact, but the billionaires and the corruptions and the sins of our ancestors and the corporations out there undo it all, every good decision being made, and they wipe it all out with one oil spill. 

12:38. In seven separate therapy sessions this week, clients discussed an old Mormon man in the leadership of the Mormon church who, in a public video, made light of deep impactful issues related to race and gender. I watched his words. This man basically commanded those listening to stop questioning god and the Mormon church. He told them to just hold fast and find reasons to stay because leaving would be catastrophic. I wasted so many goddamn fucking years in the middle of that, denying my own happiness to hold on desperately to what now is so clear to me as brainwashing and indoctrination. But every day I see people who still wrestle with this. I get to help them, but it feels like the straw against the oil spill sometimes. My heart starts to beat at a quicker tempo and the dog stretches against me and licks my chin. 

12:40. I have a stack of books on my desk downstairs, and I need to tackle them all. One is a book of art for an artist this weekend that I’m interviewing on my podcast. Another is a comic book that I need to review before the same recording. I have pages of notes on both. I’m working hard at this podcasting thing, and it’s wonderful, but I don’t know where it’s going or if it is ever going to become what I want it to be. Two more books are on the lives of David Ben-Gurion and Menachim Begin, two men who were instrumental in the formation of Israel. These two men were one writer’s templates for the characters Professor X and Magneto, the fictional characters whose competing philosophies are the framework for the entire X-Men franchise. This podcast is helping me think of this beloved franchise differently. It’s like a popular television show that has been running for two hundred seasons, and I find researching it to be challenging and nerdy and fulfilling and fun, but oh my god I have so much to do. 

12:42. My best friend’s grandmother died this last week, and I know he’s hurting. I have another close friend that I haven’t spoken to in a year because his instability was bad for me. Another close friend is taking a big risk on himself and I’m so damn proud of him. Oh my god I’m so tired. The dog rolls on to his back and I scratch his tummy gently. My mom and I are working on our relationship and it’s challenging. My step-father is getting cancer treatments. I have three siblings I speak to infrequently, and two that I haven’t spoken to in years but fuck I don’t want to think about that right now. I need to sleep! My heart picks up faster. If I don’t sleep now, I’m going to be up for hours. I have to see clients in the morning. I’ll be operating at three hours sleep and will have been up all night. 

12:44. I’m hungry. My stomach rumbles and I think of all the times I’ve sat down to come up with nutrition and exercise plans in the last ten years but I never quite get there. I think of the time I saw a friend at the gym a few years ago, and he asked how I was doing, and I told him I had just finished making a documentary and I was so proud of it and I worked so hard on it, and he gave me a once-over with his eyes in response and said ‘now if you could just work that hard on your body instead’ and then he laughed it off, and I thought ‘fuck you, man’. And the memory of that gives me the same thought. ‘Fuck you, man.’ My partner is so perfectly trim and fit and I want that but maybe I just don’t have what it takes to achieve that. Or maybe that’s just another excuse. Fuck you, man. 

12:45. Maybe I could lay on the couch and turn on something mindless. Maybe the sound of David Attenborough’s voice could put me back to sleep. Maybe soft music could do it. Or a podcast. That could work. Maybe I should just get up. I could do the dishes the laundry clean out the fridge sweep the fucking garage. I could read. I could type. I could jump on the exercise bike. I could do my taxes. Why am I laying here, what’s wrong with me, if I can’t sleep I might as well be productive. Fuck you, man. 

12:47. The dog jumps down to the floor and I know he’ll expect to go outside now. He knows I’m awake. And as soon as I stand up, my body will match my brain and there will be no more rest tonight. I’ve got too much inside me. My kids, my heart, my future, the doctor died, that racist prick at the Mormon pulpit, Menachim Begin and Magneto, another fitness plan to write and not stick to, taxes, conversations I need to have but never will, that ugly thing that guy said to me that one time. 

12:48. I get up. I need to write. Maybe writing will address both the straw and the oil spill, at least for now. At least until I try skiing one morning.

Silent witness

As a therapist, it is part of my job to sit with people during their trauma and to witness it and then, as much as I can, guide them through it. But at the end of the hour, my job is done. The people that I’m helping have to leave and walk away with their own trauma, living with it on their own. I absorb the pain. I listen. I witness. I validate. I comfort. Then they leave, and I have to find a way to be okay, to be able to move on to the next person. I have to be ready to witness trauma again.

But while I am a therapist at work, and while that is a hat I’m honored to wear, I’m not a therapist in my off hours. I’m a human male with a partner and friends and a family. I read books. I experience history. I watch the news and react emotionally to the stories. While I believe in the strength of people, I sometimes lose faith in the world. This last five years has been rough on me, emotionally and spiritually. I can’t comprehend so much of what is happening, and I don’t now, despite all of my skills, how to even process some of it. I react with pain and emotion, and I try, as much as I can, to be okay at the end of the day just like anybody else.

Some news hits me much more profoundly, on a deep trauma level, than others. The Congressional testimony of Christine Blausey-Ford hit me deeply and painfully. The storming of the Capitol Building left stones in my stomach for days. The video depicting the murder of George Floyd at the hands of police officer Derek Chauvin caused me to weep tears of deep grief. I try to teach other people how to process their pain, but far too often I can’t even process my own.

I can’t rationally comprehend the country I live in sometimes. I can’t understand it. It hurts, in enrages, it aches. I can’t understand how we are still blaming victims of sexual assault for their own assaults. I can’t understand why we are still having conversations about gun violence in a country that is plagued by hate crimes. I can’t understand those who excuse police officers for executing men and women of color, or anyone, when other options were available at all. These hate crimes hit me as hard as the news of mass shootings. I don’t understand how everyone is not up in arms and ready for change. It’s horrifying, and humiliating, and painful. My heart is broken, and I’ve grown numb to the sensation of my heart being broken. It’s been a daily barrage of all of this. I’m exhausted. We are all exhausted.

I am in Columbus, Ohio for a weekend. My hotel room is right down the street from the Capitol building. On my first night here, I walked past a painted mural dedicated to the memories of George Floyd (with the words “I Can’t Breathe!”), Breonna Taylor (“I Can’t Sleep!”), and Ahmaud Armery (“I Can’t Run!”), and the memories of so many others showed up in my head, and the heavy gut-wrenching pain showed up back up in my deep stomach. I don’t know how to sit with pain like that. It just aches. Days before I arrived here, Derek Chauvin was convicted of George Floyd’s murder. Daunte Wright was killed in the same city during the trial. And just after that, right here in Columbus, 16-year old Ma’Khia Bryant was killed by police during a mental health episode.

I stood among a crowd of hundreds, unexpectedly, just outside the capitol in a silent protest. Incredible and eloquent black leaders stood in the middle with megaphones, shouting words of pain and hurt and righteous anger. Armed officers surrounded the building itself. The protest was peaceful, and went long into the night, with marching in the street with cars driving up and down the roads blaring horns. And I wept.

A few years ago, I went to the African American History Museum in Washington D.C. and inside lay the coffin of Emmett Till, a young teenage boy who was killed by white men in the South years ago. They killed the boy because he allegedly whistled at a white woman. The men were arrested, put on trial, and acquitted. It… hurt to view his coffin. It hurt. That’s what this rally felt like.

Over the past several years, I spent untold hours making a documentary about a young man, Gordon Church, who was brutally killed for being gay. There was justice in his case, but researching was far from easy. It hurt as well. That’s what this rally felt like.

I’m aching to build a better world or my sons. I so badly want mass shootings and police killings to end now. I’m tired of aching. Everyone I know is tired of aching. I want a better world. And I want the pain to go away.

I’m tired of hurting.

a roll of the dice

            When I was a child, I had a love of dice. I loved the idea of things being randomly determined, rules being set in place by the roll of the dice and then having to be followed. I might make a list of activities to do in a day and then roll the dice to see what activity I might actually do. As I grew older, I became aware of probability, realizing that sixes and eights were rolled far more frequently than twos and twelves. So instead I would cut up strips of paper, fold them evenly, and drop them in a hat, drawing one out at a time. I’d leveled the playing field, making the determination more random. 

            The idea of this, of creating rules about chaos and living with the consequences, always tickled the edges of my brain, gave me a sense of whimsy, of adventure, around things as mundane as what book to read or what chore to do. I’ve carried that with me into adulthood. I still love the sense of random determination. I don’t wonder why I am this way, I just embrace the sense of self-determination that comes with it, the awe and sense of being alive that comes with it. 

            When I got a little older, and childhood melded into adolescence, when I became aware of the dark things in the corners of my life that I was seeking to escape from, I leaned in to the random just a bit more, needing it to keep me sane and okay during difficult times. I needed escape, to move to that part of my brain that so desperately needed to be inspired. Dice and folded strips of paper allowed me to avoid the trauma of growing up gay and hidden, the feelings of heaviness that accompanied the abuse, the indoctrination, the shame within me.

            As a young teenager, I had dreams of just moving away somewhere and starting over. I had visions of just getting in my car and beginning again in a new state, a new city. I thought of rolling a massive amount of dice and driving that number of freeway exits and then pulling in to a new city. I’d find an apartment and a job. I’d read books and make friends and no one would know me. I could start my life over, have a fresh beginning. At the time, my perspective of the world was small. I was only accustomed to small towns and farming communities. Idaho Falls, Idaho felt like the biggest city possible. I soon realized the dice were too confining once again. Maybe I’d generate a random zip code instead. Five numbers pushed together that would dictate where I’d begin again. Fargo, North Dakota or Savannah, Georgia, or Olathe, Kansas. 

            I got my first chance to start over at age 19 when I went on a Mormon mission. I was a quiet, compassionate, curious gay Mormon teen, so busy being ashamed of myself that I couldn’t see past the horizon. I ended up in big and small cities in Pennsylvania, and Delaware, and Maryland. Random determinations as I had no control where I would be or who I would live with. And I grew in ways while shrinking in others. It was a new beginning, but one with confining and difficult rules, and tremendous amounts of painful growth as I tried to shove me, the square peg, into the round hole of Mormon obedience. I hated myself there just like I’d hated myself at home because I wasn’t what everyone expected me to be. And there can be no healing when you hate yourself for all the reasons they tell you that you should hate yourself. 

            I repeated this pattern for the next ten years. I went to a Mormon college and worked Mormon jobs. Even when I had fresh starts, it was under the guise of Mormon expectations. Then I tried the Mormon marriage. And one of the things that kept me sane and alive during those years was random determination. I used dice and folded pieces of paper to keep me entertained. Books and music and household chores were constantly determined by the fate of random determination. In some way I can’t articulate well, when I surrendered to this random nature, I didn’t have to make decisions by myself. I could put away those parts of myself that felt shame, that yearned for something else, and I could just go on autopilot and somehow be okay. I wasn’t okay, but I could convince myself that I was. 

            I’ve been out of the closet for ten years now, and I’ve changed everything about myself. I’ve worked hard at bringing all parts of myself to the table, without judgment, and embracing those parts of me. One part that I accepted long ago is my love of random determination. I don’t use dice or slips of paper any longer, but I accept that there are times in my life when I need to just be tossed by the cosmic winds. I need to create space in my life to just let opportunity find me. Most of my favorite memories over the past decade have come from these times. I plant myself in a new location, a city I’ve never been to , and I see what I find. I just… exist. I fill my time by letting the world spread out in front of me, and I just see what I find. 

            In the past decade, I’ve taken myself to Juneau, Alaska, and Portland, Oregon, and Charleston, South Carolina, and Brattleboro, Vermont, and Portland, Maine, and Sante Fe, New Mexico, and Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, and Halifax, Nova Soctia, and a dozen other cities off the beaten path. I buy airfare, and I book a centrally located room, and then I make no plans. I take a few books (usually randomly selected), and my laptop, and then I just find what I find. I’ve ended up at concerts and plays, sipping drinks and bars, at museum exhibits, at poetry readings, at local drag shows. I have walked alongside rivers. I’ve started conversations in coffee shops. I’ve carried notebooks and written poetry. I’ve made time for myself to be centered and creative. A part of me comes alive. I write, and think, and center, and observe. I feel at peace. My demons can come to the surface and I can face them head on and create peace around them. It’s my new religion in a way. It’s my sanity. Not an escape any longer, just a part of myself that I need in order to be well. A part of me that refuses to be closeted any longer. 

             A year ago, Covid hit. And everything changed. I began home-schooling my sons. I closed down my office and began working from home. My gym closed. My planned trips were cancelled. My story-telling performance nights were cancelled. I sat at a computer for six to ten hours per day, and spent the rest of the time doing school lessons for my sons. Social events were cancelled. And I stopped writing. The parts of my spirit that sing, the randomness, the spiritual aspects of my nature, disappeared. They were lost to the expectations as the world shut down. My solace became walks outdoors, quiet moments at home with doors closed. And so I put all of my energy into making myself the best home environment I could.  We purchased a home and got a dog, and I took on more clients and responsibilities. And my inner core withered away. It went silent. It cried for release, but I had no room to give it voice. I had plenty to be grateful for (my amazing children, my wonderful fiancée, my adorable dog, a few close friends), but I had no solace for myself. My spark went out, and my creativity went away. 

            Until this weekend. Weeks ago, I booked a trip to Columbus, Ohio, and booked a room to stay in, and then I made no plans. My goal for this weekend, as I spend some time alone, is to rediscover myself. To talk. To observe. To drink coffee and put blank sheets of paper in front of me and then to just… be. To find what I find. To come alive again. To start my spark again. To dream and center and push forward again. 

            So here I am, universe. Guide me forward and help me find what I find. Toss the dice, fold up the paper, and help me find myself again. 

Maintaining optimism

8 months ago, the Corona Virus vastly changed my American way of life. One day, everything felt normal. I was dropping the kids off at school every day, working from my therapy office, planning trips and vacations a few months in advance, and enjoying weekends with my little family. My partner and I had a robust social life, going out with friends, double-dating, hosting movie nights, seeing movies and plays and live music. I went to the gym five times per week. I spent 6 to 10 hours per week in coffee shops, writing about my life or researching passion projects, like the one that became the documentary Dog Valley.

And then one day, everything was cancelled. School was out, and restaurants were closed, and gyms were closed, and coffee shops were closed, and suddenly it felt unsafe to go into the office. I had three trips planned that had to t cancelled as well: a family vacation to Cancun that the kids had looked forward to for months, a trip to show my partner New York City for the first time, and a week in Winnipeg with my best friend, one we had just booked after weeks of talking about it. The kids couldn’t see their friends at recess and had a hard time understanding why. I reassured them that it would all be over soon.

And then Salt Lake City was struck by a few earthquakes. And then school got out for the summer. And I closed my therapy office and began working from home, which meant seeing clients over a computer instead of in person and also keeping small children entertained all day. I couldn’t travel, and without the space to travel or even go to coffee shops, my writing inspiration went silent. I suddenly had nothing to write about. I needed to reassess, to stay happy if I was going to keep happiness in my home, and that meant changing the way I cope with everything. I’d have to change me first, then set the new trend for my family. And then there were the crazy hurricane winds that blew over ancient trees all across the city and knocked out power for days. We just went numb after a while.

Now normally, my kids had very robust social lives themselves. Play dates, painting classes, trips to the zoo and aquarium, weekly visits to the swimming pool. With everything closed, we had to change it all up. I began planning little ‘event nights’ for most nights during the week. A solo dad day for each son during the week, where we could focus on doing something they loved one on one. A Disney movie night. A board game night. A night where we ordered take out. A craft night. A coloring night. A Smash Bros tournament night. Nights of home-cooking meals together. I signed both boys up for some monthly ‘subscription’ boxes, where crafts and projects would be mailed to them. We started doing yoga at home, going to the park more, and taking one night once per month to go stay in a hotel nearby somewhere just for fun, a safe change of scenery that would allow us to continue creating memories.

And my own self-care began to shift as well. I started taking long bike rides, long baths, reading comic books more, thinking about new things to research down the line when it was safe again. I got mediocre equipment to start working out from home. I chose some shows to watch that I’d wanted to see for years and began powering through them a few episodes per day. I started taking long baths, and cooking from home more, and getting high more often, which meant my sleep was steadily improving. I saw clients over my computer from my own home, and found myself busier than ever, which meant more work but also more money coming in. Instead of spending time with lots of friends, we started hanging out with just two, another couple we had known for years. And then that couple broke up and we were spending time with only one person, my best friend Kole.

And then summer changed to fall, and the balance was disrupted again when we made the decision to not send the kids back to school. So suddenly it wasn’t just entertaining kids during the day while working impossible hours from home, it was now keeping them on task with school work while their anxiety soared and I was unavailable for hours at a time. Every moment I wasn’t doing therapy, I was suddenly helping with homework, playing the roles of teacher and tutor and parent all at once, while trying to get dishes and laundry done and bills paid. My bike rides slipped, the event nights stopped happening, and stress climbed slowly and steadily. Coping became much more difficult.

And so the conversation shifted. Again. If this was going to last a while, how do we make this better for my little family, keep optimism high and routine consistent? And so plans that were probably five years down the line suddenly became present-tense. My partner and I had talked about buying a house together somewhere in the future, having a garden in the back, maybe some chickens, and even getting a puppy. But with us both working from home and schooling the kids, the space and the change suddenly became a need instead of a want, and we opened ourselves up to the house hunt. And after all the searching, the appraisals, the financial and background paperwork, we found a cute little home that seemed perfect for our family. And then there was all the packing and sorting and storing, the cleaning and moving, the unloading and unpacking.

We spent three days in our new home, painting the kids walls and setting up furniture, getting used to where the new light switches and water mains were, learning about the water pressure in the shower and the length of the stairs in the dark. And then we got a new six-week old puppy, perhaps the cutest thing on the planet, and accepted all of the sleepless nights and responsibility that came with that. Covid numbers were going up, and here we were, ready for a new beginning, with space and solace to expand in.

And then the next day, the first one after the new puppy, I came down with Covid symptoms. And then Mike did. And the kids had to stay elsewhere for weeks, unable to enjoy the new home and bedrooms and puppy. And I was on the couch with fever, headaches, body aches, and extreme lethargy as a small puppy needed a tremendous amount of attention and to get up multiple nights per week.

Well, it’s been a few weeks since then. The Covid is gone, but the residual fatigue remains, making me so tired every evening that I want to go to bed at 7 pm–I understand this can last for a few months yet. I have an understanding of how this disease impacts human lives heavily and swiftly, and it has made me more afraid of it, because it could so easily strike my mother or another loved one. 300,000 American lives and millions worldwide. And I’m flummoxed at how callous most people are being about this. The virus continues to rage and claim lives.

It’s a few weeks later and we are in the throws of a Presidential election with consequences so vast on either side. I gladly call myself a liberal, and to me, Trump winning signals the end of democracy as we know it, as I see him as much more of a Hitler than a Roosevelt. But for many of my sane loved ones who voted for Trump, they have a similar fear of socialism, and they feel that voting in Biden may mean the end of their own version of democracy. The stakes are high and the battle lines are drawn and the whole world watches with eager anticipation. Me, I have an undercurrent of anxiety that won’t seem to go away.

It’s a few weeks later and the puppy is a slightly bigger puppy, who is playful and tired, sweet and aggressive in equal measure. We are absolutely enamored of him. The house needs a lot of attention and set-up and it has come to feel like a refuge for all of us in many ways. The kids are falling into a consistent routine. We made a happy little Halloween for us right there in our home, and we plan to do the same for the upcoming holidays.

And so six plus months have passed, and we have grown into new people. And we will continue to do so. But I find the best tool to combat all of this, the best thing to make it all okay, remains that routine, that daily focus on making life okay for all of us one day at a time. With that, we can use the optimism and consistency to recognize the people we are becoming. And, with all things, trials do their best to tear us down, and it is our skills in climbing back up that teach us new things about ourselves.

I hope when all this madness emerges that me and my family emerge from the ashes stronger and more hopeful than when we went into the fire.

August 26, 2020: I miss being hungry

I haven’t been writing lately. Like at all. No poetry. No stories. No blogs in five months. I even quit keeping my journal. The creative processes in my brain has quieted, shifting into the day to day routine and monotony of this Covid world we are living in.

The routine is a blessing some days. A challenge others. And some days, it is a drudgery. My spirit moves from soaring self-determination to quiet self-criticism, bordering on light depression at times.

I am richly blessed with a beautiful life. I have a lovely home, a handsome and dedicated man at my side, two curious and wonderful children. The bank account is doing great, considering I’m not traveling or spending money on things like entertainment. I’m working from home now. My therapy office is closed, but I’m busier than ever doing remote work over various computer platforms. I’m spending more time with the kids. We are coloring pictures, playing video and board games, reading books out loud, taking lots of walks. We are making plans to purchase a home and plant a garden and to get a family dog. All of those things make me soar with joy and light.

The most momentous thing to have happened since the quarantine measures, I mean besides the cancelling of school and the cancelled vacation plans and the cancelled story-telling events and not seeing friends or family for months… the most momentous thing is that the documentary I made was finished and it has debuted at various festivals. I’ll write more on this another time, but I’ll say that while it happened in a far different way than I once hoped, it has been a wonderful experience to see the story come to light.

Sometimes Covid has felt like a great opportunity for myself. I can read more. Really focus on nutrition and exercise, something I’ve been wanting to do for years. Build a few close friendships. Spend more time in my own skin. Write like never before. Make my house immaculate. Come up with a massive project that would inspire me for the next year.

But the opposite has happened, at least partially. I’m not laying around depressed every day or anything, but I’ve gone quiet on the inside. My perspectives have changed. My family relationships (boyfriend and sons) are stronger than ever. But my spirit has gone mute. I’m reading less. I’m watching more TV. At the start of the pandemic, I was riding my bike and doing intense workouts… now I’m doing lower intensity workouts and staying in to avoid the heat. I’m getting high more often, just enough to quiet the brain. Weirdly, I’m also sleeping better (maybe not so weirdly). I’m reaching out to friends less. My libido is lessened. I’m eating less junk food, but I’m not hitting the nutrition goals. I’m reading more comic books and finding silly projects to write about in order to avoid my brain getting crazy.

I miss being hungry. I miss telling stories. I miss having my feet on unfamiliar streets. I miss friends. I miss dancing. I miss live theater and music. I miss seeing clients in person instead of over a computer screen.

I don’t have a lot to say today, but I needed a place to voice my thoughts. I needed a spot to write down, to have a record of my experiences. I want to jump start my brain again. I want to be excited about life, to find poetry in the world. I want to form more healthy habits.

Life is absolutely wonderful. I am safe and well and loved. And yet it is important to let the soul express the rest as well. Maybe writing more regularly will awaken my hunger in other areas as well.

I miss being hungry.

Corona 2: the Lonely

The news seems to get more intense every three hours. I woke up to news that the gyms were closed. And as I prepared to adapt to the kids doing school from home, the news came out that certain cities in the United States are on complete lockdown. I continue seeing clients (from a distance or on video chat), and I’m hearing reports about grocery stores only letting 25 people in at a time, and small business worried about being shut down and being unable to last. It is downright frightening.

But most of my heart goes out to the lonely. Everyone on this planet has struggles and problems. Those problems existed the day before all of this happened, and they were intensified by the news of social distancing and the impact on the planet.

Some problems are frustrations but ultimately of little impact. People had to cancel vacations, alter plans, or temporarily withdrawn from budding relationships. Others are growing stir-crazy or don’t like the people they live with. These issues can certainly get worse.

When I begin feeling isolated, I take time to visualize the elderly living alone. People isolated in tiny cruise ship rooms and unable to leave due to quarantine. Men and women told to stay in their prison cells. This affects all of us.

Then there are those with more extreme struggles. The woman struggling with the cancer diagnosis. The man who just found out his wife has been cheating on him. The woman taking care of her elderly mother. The man wrestling with deep and abiding chronic pain. The child that feels unsafe in her own home. The woman ready to give birth any day. The man who was already struggling with crippling depression and suicidal thoughts. The woman who just lost a son tragically in a car accident one week ago. The man facing bankruptcy.

Each and every human is going to struggle with isolation and depression in some measure over the coming weeks. This is going to shift routines and impact financial wellness. Travel and social gatherings are restricted. People will be working from home. And for many, depression is going to be a harsh reality.

For those who are going to struggle, let me offer two major pieces of advice, one that should feel like a big hug, and one that should feel like a small but swift kick.

First, sadness is normal in times like these. Struggle is real and you are not alone in that struggle, nor are you fully responsible. It just is what is. It’s painful, and isolation can further depression, and it can open up old wounds, the parts of us that ache from long ago. It’s okay to grieve, to hurt, to feel that pain. It’s okay to ask for help as you move through this. It’s okay to struggle to find the light sometimes. But the light is there. Routine and consistency are going to be crucial during this time of struggle. Find the good things and hold on to them tightly. So many people out there are wiling to be there for you. Depression is a real force, as is loneliness.

Second, you have to be responsible for you. Your pain is internal and asking for help during this time is going to be crucial. You are responsible for your decisions. Drinking yourself to sleep, numbing your pain with drugs, locking yourself inside and never venturing outward–these things are guaranteed to make the pain worse. You have to take responsibility and work to better your situation. The food you eat, the way you exercise, the people you associate with, and how you spend your time are things that are in your control. Be there for yourself, be there for others, and then appreciate when others are there for you as well.

Loneliness is real. And it is a sign of depression. Think of those people in your life who need you, a little extra love and support. Arrange check-ins and phone calls. Help when you can in what ways you can. I believe it is in times of pain and struggle that the best of humanity can show up. The ways we reach out to each other, and to this struggling planet, during these times, can make all the difference in the world for someone. And do this every day. Being there for others makes us less lonely, and it helps them as well.

And as far as those personal struggles you are wrestling with, well, things don’t change overnight, but they do change incrementally a little at a time. Practice healthy habits, now more than ever.

We need each other. You aren’t alone, even when physically alone. I’m here. We’re all here. And we are all going through this together.

When you walk through a storm, hold your head up high, and don’t be afraid of the dark. 

At the end of the storm is a golden sky, and the sweet silver song of a lark. 

Walk on through the storm, walk on through the rain, though your dreams be tossed and blown. 

Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart, and you’ll never walk alone. 

You’ll never walk alone. 

Corona 1: the Anxious

The world has gone a little crazy this week. The slow build in the news about the Corona Virus taking place over the last few months felt remote. Foreign. It was a thing that other countries were going through. It was a news article I paid attention to with interest, but casual interest, figuring it wouldn’t impact me all that much. It felt like political news, or news of Australian and Amazon wildfires. And then it started hitting the news more locally, like Seattle and New York City.

And then, four days ago, it exploded. There was an onrush of news about flights and vacations being cancelled, major events like South by Southwest and March Madness being delayed or shut down, and theme parks closing. And within hours, it spread to school closures and local venues (like the swimming pool I frequent) being closed.

A myriad of emotions have set in since then. In me, in my children, in my family and loved ones, and in the general public. The world suddenly feels like a very small place. News feels familiar instead of foreign when I realize we are experiencing in Salt Lake City what they are experiencing in Seoul and Wuhan and Florence. It is a big world full of people, and we are much more the same than we are different.

This morning, I stopped by a coffee shop that I frequent. I go to this place twice a week. I know the baristas by name. I can sit there for hours and read and write. Today, everything was different. It was like an alternate reality. I walked in to see the tables empty of chairs (to enforce social distancing) and the chairs empty of people. I walked up to the counter, and the barista seemed nervous about handing me my coffee. She was anxious about taking my card to pay for the coffee, and sprayed down the counter and area with a sanitized rag, then she immediately washed her hands. It seemed physically painful for her to be there. It was… sad.

Last week, after school got cancelled, I had to sit down with my sons and talk to them about the realities about to face us. They won’t be seeing their friends at school. They wouldn’t even be going back on Monday. They might be out for days, or weeks, or the rest of the school year. I needed them to understand the seriousness of all of this, while at the same time helping them stay calm. I tried to implement a balance of social responsibility while assuring them that everything is going to be fine. I want them to be careful and realistic, but also optimistic and playful. It’s a delicate space to dwell in. This is hard for me to understand at 41; it’s an entire reality shift for them at ages 8 and 11.

But I think it is important for all of us to find that balance. There has to be a healthy space between socially responsible and mentally well. We humans are social creatures. We swarm to restaurants, movie theaters, bars, and concerts. We thrive on game nights, house parties, and social ventures. (Well, many of us do). To be suddenly removed from all of that, and left to our own support systems, it strikes up a deep and primal fear for many. We are worried about our medically vulnerable loved ones. We are worried about our food supply. We are worried about our ability to pay our bills if there isn’t consistent pay or work coming in. We are worried about being exposed to the virus. And we are worried because many other people don’t seem worried at all.

I think we need to be careful to let that worry have its place. But we can’t let it go too far. Worry should spark us toward social responsibility, not toward paranoia. I’m avoiding shaking hands with others, and hugging anyone but my family. But I’m still happy to see friends in small gathering, to visit local businesses for fast transactions. I’m still exercising, eating healthy, and seeing clients (though some in remote sessions), while frequently washing my hands and wiping down surfaces. Social distancing does not mean self-quarantining.

When I’m working with clients who have anxiety, I reassure them frequently with the Serenity Prayer (though many of them just ignore the God part). ‘God grant me the serenity to accept the things I can not change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.’ It applies here. We need to be responsible for ourselves and our activities. We need to listen to the medical professionals. We need to take care of ourselves and our families. But delving into panic, into hoarding goods, into catastrophizing and making things out to be tougher than they actually are, well, those things don’t help.

The number one tool in combating anxiety is BREATH. Breath and mindfulness. Slow, measured breathing when things feel impossible. Careful consistent planning. Long walks in the sunlight. Drinking water. Moving our bodies. Staying connected with friends. Working on projects. Staying task-oriented. Setting new routines.

The truth is, there is a lot up in the air. We don’t know what headlines will hit the news tomorrow and inspire a fresh wave of nervousness. But delving into the anxiety too far is not going to change things. This is a difficult time, and we will need to support each other through it.

When I break anxiety apart, I find fear and sadness underneath. This is a time that is scary and difficult. And it has to be experienced just a few hours at a time. That is what we have control over. A few hours at a time, leading up to a day at a time.

Take a deep breath. We are all going through this together.

Learning to Leave

Learning to Leave

When I was 12 years old, I sat with my family on the back row of the middle section of the chapel during sacrament meeting. My sister Sheri sat to my left, barely 9, and my mother sat to my right. And as Sister Stratton bore her testimony from the pulpit, I watched my mother turn ashen gray.

She started with the standard ‘I want to bear my testimony that I know this church is true’, followed by professions of belief in the prophets and the scriptures and the love of God. And then her tone changed to something sicky-sweet, words so sincere that they sat like a piece of undigested roast beef in my stomach.

“Brothers and sisters, I want to bear my testimony on the blessings of temple marriage. I met my husband when I was 18 and he was 21, just off his mission. My father promised us back then that if we followed the teachings of God and honored our temple covenants, our lives would be blessed beyond measure. We now have seven beautiful children and are so happy. I want to promise you that if you follow the counsel of your leaders and marry in the temple, you can have what I have, in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”

She returned to her seat on the second row and snuggled up next to her husband, their children on either side of them taking up the entire bench. On the back row, I watched my mother swallow hard and close her eyes tightly as big tears formed and began cascading down her cheeks. She let out her breath slowly and more tears followed. Despite her best efforts, she was soon openly crying. She excused herself as I sat there, not knowing what to do.

My mother grew up in the 1950s in potato country, Idaho. Even the mascot at the nearby high school was a potato. She was the middle daughter of a farmer and a teacher, the only one in the family with blue eyes and blonde hair. They were the perfect Mormon family, descended from pioneers and strong in their faith. Her beauty blossomed in her teenage years, when she learned to style her hair in the perfect beehive. She was asked out constantly, and even years later, she bragged about ‘kissing up a storm’ with her high school boyfriend in the back seat, but never taking it so far that it would disappoint her father. She turned down several marriage proposals before she finally said yes to my father.

He was the good-looking son of a sheep farmer, with four older brothers and one baby sister. He was a returned missionary, and a veteran, and he had a strong testimony of the gospel. When he proposed, he was 25, and my mom just 20, and they were blissfully happy. They had children, finished college, built a house on the hill, started their careers, had a few more kids. My mother had four daughters and a son, the same composition as her family growing up, and she loved dressing them up for church every Sunday and parading them in to fill up a row, just like Sister Stratton’s family would years later. Perhaps she even bore her testimony about the blessings and happiness of marriage back then. Maybe she made promises that others could have what she had, through righteousness and obedience.

But then, when she was in her early 30s, my father started growing quiet. A darkness was developing within him, and she couldn’t make sense of it. When he grew distant, surly, and critical, she threw herself harder in to church service and raising the perfect family. Scripture study, fasting, prayer, and temple attendance weren’t working. He wasn’t getting better. Her testimony remained solid, but he grew darker. And then she started finding out about the credit card debt and his losses on the stock market, things he kept secret for years.

In the mid 1970s, my father abruptly announced his plan to move the entire family to rural Missouri, where he saw a chance to get rich quick. My mother, ever the good wife, acquiesced and packed up their entire lives into a truck. They sold their home and left their parents, foraging into the great unknown, like their pioneer ancestors before them, but for entirely different reasons. Once they arrived, my mother, now more isolated and fighting off a building panic, saw things get worse for my father, as he fell farther into debt and depression. And with her old children now hitting early adolescence, she got pregnant again, this time with me. And then again, with my little sister. And suddenly, it was the mid-1980s, and she had seven mouths to feed, ranging from baby to pre-teen, with maxed out credit cards and a house payment due. All that plus a husband full of darkness.

My mother stayed for far too long. Quiet painful hours in her marriage balanced by the joys she found in her children. Those hours stacked up to years. Two years turned to 5, then 8, then 12. The debts mounted from thousands to tens of thousands to hundreds. The older children started struggling with decisions, going off the deep end, straying from her deeply held beliefs. She continued making the dinners, doing the laundry, paying the bills, cleaning the house. My father worked too much, and then came home and locked himself in the bedroom to cry. Well on the days when he wasn’t mean and critical, blaming mom for everything, leaving her lists of all she was doing wrong while telling her that if she was a better wife, then maybe the Lord would bless the more. He closed off, refusing to talk to her, to open, to touch her. She took on a part-time job, then another. My dad went to therapy and to treatment multiple times, but he never listened, it never worked. He grew darker still. I grew up with a mother who was attentive, loving, and playful, and a father who barely noticed I was alive, who sucked all of the energy out of the room.

It wasn’t until 1990, when my mom got spiritual confirmation while visiting the temple, that she knew she needed to leave my dad. Divorce didn’t come easily to her. It had long-term spiritual ramifications, eternal ones, as she felt that leaving her marriage meant severing sacred family bonds that were meant to extend into forever. Marriage was the most sacred institution, and she felt as if she hadn’t been strong enough to make it work. The consequences were astronomical and eternal. But after over a decade of increasing pain and unhappiness, she’d realized that the consequences for staying might be worse. And so she’d boldly packed the truck once again and drove thousands of miles back to her roots.

In her mid-40s, my mother moved back in with her parents. She took a teaching job and eventually started renting a home. She showed super human strength in rebuilding her life in the state she’d left behind. To me, age 11 at the time, my parents’ divorce came as a relief. Finally, I thought even then. Finally.

I grew protective over my mother in the following years. I was the man of the house now. I would set my alarm early and shovel the sidewalks, clean the kitchen, scrape the car windows, all before she woke up. I made myself the moral authority of the house, lording it over my sister. I took jobs doing paper routes and babysitting, and would often sneak the money I was making into her purse to help. Seeing her walk out of the chapel that day with tears in her eyes, hearing Sister Stratton profess how happy marriage was if you just followed the rules, well, it broke my heart for my mom. I had no words. All I knew was that my mother was the strongest and most Christ-like person I knew, and those things hadn’t worked out for her, despite the prophetic promises. I realized even then that sometimes breaking the rules requires more courage than staying miserable ever could.

I wish I could say life got easier after that. My mother fell in love again a year later, and then spent a few more years with a man who used fists, insults, and control to terrorize us. She had seven children, and she would see seven divorces among them happen in the following years, while many grandchildren were born. My father, though distant, would remain a painful presence in her life. And then her youngest two children would come out of the closet. Health scares mounted as well. But over the years, I watched her maintain her church attendance with grace and dedication, all while balancing out her love for her children, even those who left the faith she believed so strongly in.

I once saw my mother get a Priesthood blessing, on a night after my stephfather had hit her. The bishop laid his hands on her head and promised her comfort, then he told her that in the pre-existence, before she came to Earth, she had agreed to give these two men that she’d married the chance to redeem themselves during mortal life. That day, I watched her go ashen again, and that night was the only night I ever saw her go to bed without praying first.

My mother always called me her Nephi, her stalwart one, and I did my best to be that for her. She wrote me literally every day for two years while I was on my mission. And we talked often while I was in college. At a certain point, she started opening up to me about my father and stepfather and why the marriages had gone so poorly. At the time, I was going through training on how to be a therapist, and I was facing some deep depression of my own. I’d grown up believing that following the rules meant happiness and miracles, I’d even been promised a cure for being gay, and I didn’t know any other truth, not yet.

And in time, I recommended that my mother do some therapy of her own. I needed to be her son, not her confidant. Though initially heartbroken, my mother did sign up for therapy. She listened and learned quickly, and I watched a transformation happen. I watched a woman in her mid-50s learn that happiness is a personal choice, and that it does not come simply as a reward for obedience. She learned that staying in impossible situations, even marriages, is sometimes the wrong decision. The consequences for staying can last generations. She learned how not to hold on to pain for so long. And by learning to properly heal from her past and confront her pain, I saw her move forward with new light and strength. She faced life with an internal grace I’d never seen in her before.

I’m 41 today and my mother is 76. She has been happily married to her third husband for many years, and they have been sealed in the temple. She is a loving mother of seven children, and they range from a stake president’s wife to an ex-con, right on down to her two youngest, the gay ones. Sometimes we talk about bravery, and we draw the comparison between her hard choice to leave my father, and my hard choice to leave the closet and religion behind. And though I’m certainly not her Nephi any longer, at least not in the way she’d once hoped, we respect each other. We understand each other. And she remains the best example in my life of courage, grace, power, and love. From her, I learned that sometimes it is far braver to leave than to hold on so tightly to what hurts.



Maybe I should start writing again.

Six weeks hardly feels like a long time, but considering that, not long ago, I used to blog every day, 40 days without writing anything feels… sane. I miss that feeling I used to get when I’d witness something, feel or experience something, and I couldn’t wait to get to my keyboard and share my insights with the world. I miss utilizing those parts of my heart and brain. I got rather good at it, and it felt good to do it, to share, to put myself on paper like that. It gave me a continuity.

But lately, I’ve been in hibernation mode. The failure to measure up to some undetermined form of success has been weighing on me. I grew weary of asking for help,  of expecting a particular audience size, of waiting for books to sell. The documentary has taken much longer than I thought, the book has gone quiet, the crowd sizes at story-telling events are in the tens instead of the hundreds. My love for writing and creating has been replaced by pain over a lack of results. And so I face either trying to reformat, again and again, in hope that the numbers go up, or I just let myself go numb a bit. Stop caring about the results and just enjoy the process. Either that, or… I just… don’t. Don’t write. Don’t let my brain get busy and divided. Don’t dream up projects I’ll never finish. Don’t let my awe get inspired by stories I wish I could tell. Because if I dim the frustration, then I can just, maybe, be a peace for a while? But that also means dimming the dreaming. And who am I, who is this new me, without all of that?

And so, I’ve gone quiet lately. I turned 41 a few weeks ago, surrounded by friends at a party I hosted for myself. My boyfriend of nearly 3 years and I took a wonderful vacation to Thailand for a week and I had some of the most foreign and unexpected experiences of my life. My children are stable and content, thriving and happy. I’ve organized the house. I’m setting goals for the new years. My business is doing very well and in a nice building phase. My boyfriend is working from home now. It is nearly 2020, and the news cycles pass by with increasing speed.

I have so, so much to be grateful for. And I am. But that dreamer part of me, the part with more expectations, has gone quiet. I’m at peace, and it is… comfortable. A thousand things I could be writing about, yet I’m not writing. I’m not depressed. I’m not bitter. I’m perhaps a little tired, and maybe a little scared.

There. That right there. That’s why I write. It sorts me out. I just realized I’m scared. I couldn’t have verbalized that before, but now it is so apparent to me. I’m scared of that ongoing unsettled feeling. I’m scared to trust more people who will, in whatever form, let me down. I’m scared to ask for help. I’m scared to expect things from others. And I’m scared that I’m going to remain scared of those things, that I’ll grow callused, sealed up, unwilling. I’m scared that these failures, these inabilities to achieve “success” in its various forms, is going to result in me no longer doing the things that I love.

But there he is, the dreamer. He’s sleeping. He’s gone quiet, but he’s there. Because who else but me would willfully say he is hibernating in one sentence, say how he has gone quiet lately, how he is not writing lately… and then write about not writing in the next.

I miss questing. I miss the process of building the documentary, unearthing mysteries one interview and newspaper article at a time. I miss crafting stories. I miss outlining plays, comic books, projects in my brain, and wondering when I’ll find time to write. I miss the unrest. And it is baffling to realize that, but it makes sense of me. I come alive during those times. Those who love me can see it. My boyfriend can see it. When I come home with that light in my eyes and I have the craziest story to tell him, with the most enthusiasm in my voice. I don’t love the painful parts, but I need them to give me the drive. I need the striving back. I’m not so sure I was made for hibernation, for contentment. (But maybe I can carry some of these lessons with me moving forward…)

So maybe I start writing again. Maybe I don’t care about the numbers of people who read it. Maybe I grow discontent again, and I don’t get so threatened by that. Maybe I stop being afraid of being afraid. Maybe I’m more disciplined with my time. (And who I trust, and my money, and my nutrition consistency, and…) Maybe I lean into dreaming again, into a new project that I can pour my love into.


Maybe it’s time to wake up.

Damn, I didn’t sleep very long.