a sensitive summer thing
how are you, really?
This is my fourth attempt at writing today’s newsletter post. My brain feels like a bowl of soggy, cold oatmeal left, untouched, all day. My intent for today’s letter was to write about existential fears (i.e. death), but the words felt forced and H E A V Y.
So, I took a few deep breaths, walked away from my computer and….
here
we
are
.
.
.
are we there yet?
Lists help me get started, somewhere….
Begin
Again
And
Again
And
Again
And
Again
And
And
Some current thoughts extending their stay in my Airbnb brain:
This is such a dumb newsletter post.
Stop being so hard on yourself. It’s fine! This is all just part of the process. Trust the process.
Trust the process? Oh my god SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP.
When was the last time I saw the movie UP? I should re-watch it soon.
I feel kind of disconnected. From myself, from others. But also kind of welcome the disconnection? This is a weird dilemma.
I think I have some trust issues with others. Like… I expect to be let down. And it’s sort of a cyclical, sick, self-fulfilling prophecy? Let’s bookshelf this one for therapy.
Ughhhhh therapy is in twenty minutes… I really don’t want to go tonight. But I should. No I shouldn’t. Yes I should. No I shouldn’t.
I feel nostalgic for this morning.
I’m hungry?
I think I’m forcing this. I can’t tell yet.
Fears from my heart, with love:
I am terrified that everyone’s empathy (mine included) has a looming expiration date.
I am pretty scared of not knowing myself well enough to know when I’ve started to disconnect.
I’m so scared of being forgotten about/left behind/pitied/tossed out/old news/unremarkable.
I’m pretty nervous for when/if it becomes inconvenient again to bring up racism at the dinner table.
I am really really REALLY scared that white fragility is now taking the form of: “It’s time for me to be quiet at the all-staff meeting in the name of solidarity & “I don’t feel like I’m the best person to have this honest conversation with you, a Black person. Here… why don’t you speak with this other Black person I know, and then you both can get back to me, or not! Your choice (but please don’t get back to me) Thanks!”
I’m scared of my joy, as it is usually co-opted by all of my fears.
Things that recently reminded me of my humanity:
Every single poem written by Nayyirah Waheed, but especially:
i am a brutally soft woman.
…
where
you are.
is not
who
you are.
- circumstances
…
when you are struggling
in your
writing (art)
it usually means
you
are hearing one thing
but
writing (creating) another.
- honest | risk
Receiving & reading my parents’ 23 & me profiles and my Dad writing “surprise surprise!” next to his 98.6% Ashkenazi Jewish-ness.
Truly recognizing that grief can look/feel/taste like everything and nothing at the exact same time.
Watching Sam bask in the sun, just because.
Re-reading the “I’m not Tragic” chapter in Black, White & Jewish by Rebecca Walker.
This quote by Lori Gottlieb in Maybe You Should Talk to Someone:
Therapy is about understanding the self you are. But part of getting to know yourself is to unknow yourself – to let go of the limiting stories you’ve told yourself about who you are so that you aren’t trapped by them, so you can live your life and not the story you’ve been telling yourself about your life.
These songs, on repeat: I Feel Love – Donna Summer // F.U.B.U - Solange // After Laughter (Comes Tears) – Wendy Rene // Could Heaven Ever Be Like This – Idris Muhammad
Let’s pause here …
love,
Jesse