Flat

For most of my adult life, there was something about being sad that felt homey.

You know, the kind of sadness that involves old time country music, a desire for rainy days, and a bottle of bourbon. The kind of sadness you can curl up with.

I always secretly loved that kind of sadness, and it often found me after a breakup when I wasn’t particularly interested in the other person. There was something pleasant about having license to keep to myself and not need to expend any emotional energy beyond, “Wow, I’m pretty bummed right now” and then drinking like my life was a Patsy Cline song.

To be clear, I wasn't seeking the kind of emotional emptiness that finds you during a depressive episode. It was the kind of sadness that could eventually be lifted by a sunny day or a long run or an A on a paper I had written.

The self-indulgent sadness was an emotional state that I pursued and reveled in when I could get it just right. And “just right” usually meant “going through a breakup with a person I don't actually call back” or “regretting that one-night-stand with the ex who just broke my heart.”

It was the kind of sadness that was addictive.

***

The fiancé and I were in a fight that felt like the Second Labor of Hercules.

He and I fight infrequently. So infrequently, in fact, that when we were dating I wondered if our relationship wasn’t passionate enough (hey, we all have our own shit). And usually when we do fight it ends in us going to bed and waking up to have a rational conversation the next day.

This was not one of those fights.

It was the sort of fight that went on for days, and when we finally cut off one of its heads and thought we were all right, the next day would find me sobbing on the couch over something different.

There were a lot of tedious reasons it was so hard (ineffective communication, a desire to be the Right and Reasonable One in the relationship, new medications that were causing mood swings, blah blah blah). But it was hard. Harder than anything we’ve done together in the past two years.

The hardest part was I was unprepared for the intensity of my anger. There were days when I would be talking to my best friend and shaking with rage. Whether it was a function of new meds or wedding stress, or finally having feelings again after a year of depression I can’t say. And, truthfully, I didn’t examine what was going on too closely. All I knew was I was angry and one night found me angry enough  that I started packing a bag to sleep on my best friend’s couch. As I stuffed pajamas into my bag and looked for my earrings for the next day, I heard the front door open and the fiancé talking to the cats. I deflated and asked myself:

“What the hell am I doing?”

He found me sitting on our bed, crying.

***

Prior to the fiancé, all of my relationships imploded between three and five months.

Some were my fault, others weren’t. Ultimately they didn’t work out because we would fight and I would give them the finger and go sit in my home wishing for rain and listening to Hank Williams. They ended because I didn’t care enough for them to continue.

And there was something comforting about those endings. The emotions were one-dimensional and soothing in their flatness.

Now, with the fiancé, it’s never just one emotion. It’s joy with aggravation, love with happiness, anger with sadness and frustration and fourteen other feelings I can’t identify. They are confusing and crazy-making and what had me packing my bag to sleep on the best friend’s couch. I’d lived so many years with flat, straightforward emotions that I was utterly unprepared for emotional complexity, especially the kind that combines love and anger and frustration.

Unprepared actually doesn’t even scratch the surface.

The night I was packing my bag, I was angry beyond any anger I’d ever experienced. Of course I was.  I’d spent five days distilling sadness, distress, and frustration into something flat and easier to deal with. Rage is so much more comfortable than sadness. When I heard the fiancé’s voice at the door, I realized that I didn’t want to be flat anymore. When he came in and sat down next to me, I told him everything. He listened—he listened for a long time while I told him every emotion I was having and all of the ones I couldn't identify and how complicated everything was for me at the moment. We talked, and all of those stupid, complex emotions found a voice.

The funny thing is that even when I was sad and leaning waaaaaaay into it, it wasn't as satisfying as it used to be. No amount of Johnny Cash or Sam Houston whiskey brought back that feeling of pleasant self-indulgence or even the comfort that it used to bring. Rather than being a flat, understandable emotion, sadness was huge and complicated and made me feel so awful that it was hard to make it through the day without crying at my desk.

Instead, the rush of relief I was seeking came after talking and listening and apologies from both of us, when I went to bed with a glass of water, some music, and, well, him. He put his arms around me and kissed my hair and told me he loved me. One of the cats jumped into bed and headbutted me. Still a little sniffly, I closed my eyes and said out loud "Yes, this is home."

White Rabbits

We're in a hotel somewhere outside Madison, Wisconsin. I'm talking to the fiance from the bathroom, the kind of winding-down-from-the-day conversation that doesn't require a participant, only a listener. He's reading on the couch, drinking whiskey and unwinding in his own way. When I fall into bed and ask "Are you coming?" he repiles "I have to finish something. I'll be there in a little bit." Knowing his nocturnal habits, love of whiskey, solitude, and books I turn out the light and sleep. When I wake in the morning, a small, white, origami rabbit greets me from the bedside table.

I cry so hard I wake him up.

***

The past months have been, well, shitty. 

I discovered that there's no easy way to tell your friends, your fiance, your doctors, that you've been thinking you'd be better off dead. 

No, maybe not so much dead, but wishing that you could magically stop existing. Just, *poof!* be gone from the world and its revolving door of bullshit. 

Anyway, it's a hard thing to say. 

I didn't tell my friends and fiance because I thought it was a passing thing. I didn't say anything to my therapist because I didn't want to be committed. And it wasn't like I was planning to harm myself. I just wanted to stop. 

Being not-quite-suicidal is a weird place to be It was weird when I was isolated, living alone in the North Country,  and it's even weirder now that I share my daily life with another person I love deeply. Try to imagine spending 3/4 of every day thinking "I would rather not be than be what I am right now." and then spending the remaining 1/4 of the day thinking "I can't wait to meet my new niece" or "Gosh, our first dance at our wedding is going to be great." Mix in having obsessive-compulsive disorder and a total  inability to deal with conflict in any capacity and you're off to the races. 

Eventually I say it out loud to to the fiance and the best friend. They send me off to the shrink with directions to be honest. I didn't end up institutionalized. Instead I got a lot of cheery "You're doing great! Everything will be okay! Everyone loves you and you're well supported!" I know it's her job, but Jesus Christ, lady. I'm drowning here, I don't need compliments on how well I'm doing the dead man's float. I need a fucking life preserver. The doctor is more helpful, she changes my medication, promises me that this time we've probably zeroed in on a better combination of of benzos, SSRIs, and sleeping pills. And God bless her, she does it without puking rainbows.

More helpful than therapists puking rainbows or doctors with prescription pads, the fiance is there at the end of every day. He's the one who sits and holds my hand during panic attacks and helps me slow down my breathing. He makes me dinner and takes me to my therapy appointments and snuggles me to sleep. 

I love him so much, but right now it's hard to tell him. Trying to muster the the energy to get into the shower is more than I can handle most days , being an empathetic, loving partner sometimes feels impossible. So I do what I can. I schedule massages for him. I meet him at the door with a glass of whiskey when he gets home from work. I do my best to get up off the couch and have an actual conversation. 

And I hope that it's enough. 

***

Sometime during the winter I sit with he the fiance while he plays my favorite videogame. It's a narrative RPG about a relationship. The main character's wife has a mental illness and has a hard time talking to her husband. She loves him deeply, but because of her mental illness she doesn't know how to tell him. Because she can't figure out how to tell him that she loves him, she folds him hundreds of origami rabbits over the course of their complicated relationship to say "I love you."

He doesn't understand.

The fiance and I play the ending together (me couch co-oping) and when I burst into tears at the end, he wraps his arms around me and lets me cry. I want to say that I wanted him to play the game not only because it's beautiful but because I feel like the woman in the story, and I need him to know that I love him, even when I don't know how to say it. 

But even over the winter, things are bumpy. There are panic attacks and depression. I'm still making it to the shower, but sleep most of the time I'm not at work. And I discover that I can't tell him what I'm feeling even when the moment is exactly what I've been waiting for. 

When I wake to find the white origami rabbit next to our bed somewhere outside of Madison. Wisconsin, I realize that I don't have to say it. He learned to understand my own white rabbits a long time ago

Crone Island

I storm into the living room, scoop the cat off of my fiancé’s lap and without saying a word, head back to the bedroom.

“Hey, where are you taking her?”

“We’re going to Crone Island.” I announce, imperiously and without explanation.

I slam the bedroom door.

I was first introduced to Crone Island when Kerry pointed me toward and article on Emotional Labor and its subsequent Meta Filter. Crone Island is a magical island filled with all of your best ladyfriends. There are whiskey rivers, weights without Bros monopolizing the squat rack, cats that like to snuggle, romance novel trees, and Buffy The Vampire Slayer Marathons.

And unicorns. Lots of unicorns.

In real life, Crone Island is located at the intersection of my best friend’s liquor cabinet and the sympathetic, exasperated noises a group of women can make when comforting a woman whose boyfriend has just accidentally called her fat. It’s the place where you go to forget (for a time) that you’re in a relationship and have to take someone else’s feelings into account.

That’s the more innocent part of Crone Island.

The truth is that it’s also a fortified city with genetically modified alligators in the moats and She Wolves prowling the parapets. It is an emotional retreat, the place I go to when I’m too angry or frustrated or tired to engage in my relationship(s) like a grownup. Crone Island is where I don’t have to do the emotional labor of being in a relationship.

I’ve spent a lot of time in this part of Crone Island.

Which is the part of my personality that I am ashamed of, that I hide from almost everyone. Okay. We all have our quirks that we hide and goodness knows I have a tendency to overshare. Awkward dancing? Here’s the playlist! The fiancé’s flexible relationship with time? Groused about to my best friend over Saturday brunch. The terrible fight we had three months ago? Collapse on closest couple’s couch accomplished. What I rarely discuss (and probably should) is the rapidity with which I can do disconnect from our lives and our relationship. It’s a throwback to exes who weren’t very good to me, to parts of my life where it was easier to be a Vulcan than a person.

While I know that this is No Way to Live and The Number One Thing You Can Do to Make Your Partner Hate You, I still do it. Frequently. Because there is still a vocal minority in my brain that believes it is easier to be alone.

Over the past months, that vocal minority has gotten a lot louder. I find myself in one of the most challenging and stressful moments in my life and my easiest coping mechanism is flight. Since January, I’ve changed depression medications, we’ve both changed jobs. We’re planning our wedding and fundraisers and have been generally pretty busy without a lot of time alone. For two introverts it was a recipe for bickering and hurt feelings, and I found myself gathering up an indignant cat and running off to Crone Island most nights of the week.

While I was snuggling the cat behind my mental fortifications, I would worry. Constantly. About how unfair I was being to the fiancé. About how he should be able to be with someone who could actually be with him. About how fucking scary it is to be in love and spend most of my time being in love and vulnerable. I snuggled the cat closer and wondered if it would be easier just to run away with her for good. I smiled a little when I thought about how the fiancé would be angrier about losing her than me. It seemed so much easier than continuing to let him in close enough to hurt me for the rest of our lives.

Sunday morning I got up and went looking for the cat to head back to Crone Island to think. When I found her on the living room couch I realized that the cold we thought she had was more serious than we had realized. I shouted for the fiancé and we loaded her up and took her to the kitty ER and we lost her. All in about three hours.

That evening I was crying like a four year old. “I. Want. My. Kitty,” I sobbed on the fiancé’s shoulder. “I want her now. Who am I supposed to take to Crone Island?”

“Maybe you don’t have to go.”

“You’re missing the point!”

He wasn’t.

Beyond the accidentally cruel comments and small hurts that are part of any relationship, there is the deep knowledge that someday this person is going to be gone. And I know, conflating putting down the cat and thoughts of the fiancé dying sounds a bit, I don’t know, insane. But the reality is that until she died, I did not realize what Crone Island was really for. The flaws of that reality have come sharply into focus over the past week. The best-friend, whiskey river, kitty snuggle parts of Crone Island are all well and fine. The drinking tea and bitching about a flawed recycling system are okay, too. The walls and hiding from our relationship, not so much.

I’ve stayed away from the Island for the week. I’ve cried while washing up the cat’s dishes and putting away her food. I’ve laughed remembering the inopportune moments she jumped up into our bed. I’ve curled up in the fiancé’s lap and cried and told him that the thought of him dying scares me so badly that I have to fight the urge to run away from our relationship.

And while it’s not whiskey rivers and unicorns, it’s not GMO alligators and She Wolves either. It’s a quiet space where we can be loving and vulnerable, amused and annoyed, frustrated and supportive with one another. While it isn’t as punchy as Crone Island, it has its own name that I like an awful lot.

Home.

Fat Girl Fashion Rules

Fat Girl Fashion Rules

1. Always wear black. It's slimming and hides all kind of flaws. 
2. No sleeveless tops! Michelle Obama set the bar HIGH for sleeveless, so always have a cute wrap or a fun cardigan with you.  
3. Weigh yourself every day. Base your outfit on how much weight you've gained/lost in the past twelve hours.  

***

"You need to throw out your scale."

"What?"

"Or have your fiance hide it."

"Huh? Wait, why?"

"You also aren't allowed to count calories anymore."

"Are you trying to keep me fat?"

Therapy appointments have been combative recently. 

"Because you fixate on it and do your body more harm than good. I also want you to list five things you like about your body right now."

I cross my arms over my chest like a shitty teenager. And sigh. And roll my eyes. 

"Okay, now it's seven."

"I could pay my mother less to do this."

She eyeballs me. "Do you really want to open that can of worms today?"

"Ugh. Number one . . ."

***

Fat Girl Fashion Rules

1. Disguise your thighs! Never mind that "Thunder Thighs" sounds like an Asgaardian compliment. Hide those thighs! Unless they don't touch. In which case, keep rocking that Diet Coke Diet, girl!
2. Buy some shapewear! The Kardashian gals do it, why shouldn't you? 
3. Invest in sexy lingerie! Regardless of what they say, your boytoy does not want to see you naked. 

***

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"I mean . . . wow."

"We should high five."

"It's usually good, but that was . . ."

"I know, RIGHT?"

It's quiet for a few minutes while we catch our breath. 

"Hey?"

"Yeah?"

"Did your therapist tell you to turn on the light?"

***

Fat Girl Fashion Rules

1. Skinny jeans are for skinny girls. 
2. Channel your fashionable side through getting REALLY GOOD at makeup. BONUS: You can contour away your double chin!
3. Wear things that flatter your body! STYLE INSPIRATION: Fashion forward nuns in the 1950s. 

***

I mean, I get it. I really do. People come in all shapes and sizes. We're brought up in a culture of Photoshop and fast food. Skinniness is not an indication of moral superiority. Forget fashion rules, wear what you want. Love yourself and all your flaws. No, not flaws.  Flaws are being cruel or greedy or arrogant, not being chubby.

I also, you know, live in the world. I listen to my coworkers brag about how far under their calorie count they've managed to say. I remember the long conversation I had with brilliant, funny, beautiful women I knew in graduate school that wasn't about grace or ecclesiology, but was about how badly we all wanted thigh gap.  I've gone into stores that seem to assume that all fat girls want to hide their bodies under yards of fabric, stick to monochromatic clothes, or that we don't deserve anything pretty, fun, or for Christ's sake, that doesn't look like a mumu. 

I do what I can. Every morning I look in the damn mirror and list the seven things I like about myself. I develop both the ability to gently laugh at myself and cry silently in front of the mirror. I leave the light on during sex and don't hyperventilate. I stop getting on the scale, counting calories, and reading Harper's Bazaar. I buy the clothes that I actually want to wear and try to be brave enough to wear them. 

Surprising, Expected

The boyfriend gives me an engagement ring on Christmas Day.

It is both surprising and expected.

We've been referring to one another's families as "future in-laws" for months now. We've talked in detail about our eventual wedding. We have two person dance parties in the kitchen. He's seen me through job transitions and family arguments. We've been angry at one another and made up and moved on.

When we go to tell our friends that we're engaged, one will nearly knock over a waiter after jumping out of his chair to congratulate us. Several will cry. A few make me cry while telling the story.

I feel like I have never been as happy in my life.

***

The cat is meowing and pawing at the door.

I've barricaded myself into the book room. It's mine in a way the rest of the house isn't. It has all of the comforts from my old apartment. The antique wing chair where I curl up and read. The rocking chair my mother bought when she first moved out on her own. It has all of my books and the rug from my house. 

It also has the cat box. 

Normally it isn't a problem, but the boyfriend and I got into an argument the night before and I'm angry enough to retreat to my corner. And I'm angry enough that I've closed the door, turned up the radio, and am pretending that I'm back in my studio apartment in St. Paul, living the life of a single lady again. 

The illusion sticks, at least long enough for me to get control of my breathing and blood pressure. 

Then his voice from the living room "Can you let the cat in? She needs to use the box."

Just that request sends sends my blood pressure shooting back up again. I crack the door open and stomp the three steps back to my rocker. I am fully aware that I am being a petulant, shitty partner, but I'm not even remotely close to being able to act like an adult.

I feel like I have never been as angry in my life.

***

"Will you sing to me?"

It's not long after a panic attack has left me shaking and unable to breathe. I've scratched the skin off of my right hand, one of a new, super-great bonus set of symptoms I've recently started exhibiting. I've spent most of the day sleeping, just trying to get some space in my head.

And despite napping most of the day away, we've gone to bed early (at my request). I'm so done in that the prospect of staying awake past 9:00pm seems impossible.

Anyway, I ask the boyfriend to sing to me frequently. I like his voice and it's a nice way of falling asleep.

I feel him nod. While he's nodding my already burned out brain starts on an exhaustingly familiar awful loop.

I love him. I love him more than I knew as possible. But some day he'll die and then where will I be? I'm always going to be exhausting and anxious and a mess. This is me when things have been going well. Why would I inflict this hot-mess-ness on someone I love? Isn't it better to let him find someone better? 

Of course, all of those tedious, repetitive thoughts (and about two dozen more) take about a second and a half, during which time the boyfriend has cleared his throat to get ready to sing.

It's a Foo Fighter's song we both love. It's one of the songs we dance to in the living room and one that's just somehow right for both of us at the same time.

I start to cry.

I feel like I have never been as certain in my life.