Your birthday is Monday. And so another year has passed without you here. It went quickly this time. Most days appear to be happening faster than I think I like.
Some days are better than others. Where I can see a sunrise and not be disappointed one of my best friends isn’t there to see it. Where opening my mouth to inhale doesn’t hurt because you aren’t able to do the same.
If I had loved you more. If I had loved you better. Would that have made a difference? Probably not. I know what it’s like to be chained to the whirlpool of thoughts dragging a person to the bottom. I know there’s very little, if anything, that looks like hope. That looks like something to hold onto with every bit of strength left.
I love so hard. I put everything I have in me into making sure people know that they matter. I give all of myself and usually get very little in return, but I do it because to lose someone else, to break open with every thought of them–good or bad–I don’t have it in me.
My beautiful boy. You will never be 35.
I tell myself to keep plodding through the different paths my life will take me. I do it for the little girl I never got to be. I do it for her.
Myself.
All this time I thought I was doing it for everyone else. Because I had to stay strong, be strong for them. Be the one people could rely on even when I was broken and battered by the hurricanes of my mental illness.
To say I miss you is to be cheap with words and you deserve more. I hope the sun shines on your face now, and that the pain you felt while here is more a memory almost forgotten.
“You might try then, as I did, to find a sky so full of stars it will blind you again. Only no sky can blind you now. Even with all that iridescent magic up there, your eye will no longer linger on the light, it will no longer trace constellations. You’ll care only about the darkness and you’ll watch it for hours, for days, maybe even for years, trying in vain to believe you’re some kind of indispensable, universe-appointed sentinel, as if just by looking you could actually keep it all at bay.”
Johnny Truant, October 31, 1998 (House of Leaves introduction, page xxiii)
I’m going to start out by saying this book is not for everyone and I don’t think it was meant to be. It’s meant for those who need it most. I was recommended it years and years ago by one of my very good friends, and I just never got around to finding it. It is a book that must be found. It is, without hesitation, my new favorite book of all time.
Let me explain.
House of Leaves is a story within a story within a story. It begins with an introduction by Johnny Truant, who finds this manuscript in the apartment of a dead man. He then becomes obsessed with the story of a family who moved into a house with bigger dimensions on the inside than were possible. But is it his obsession or is it the dead man’s? Zampano, the writer of the manuscript, has his own story, and through Johnny’s footnotes, we get a glimpse of what Zampano’s life was before he died. So, we have the story Zampano wrote–which by all appearances is an academic treatment of the mysterious film/photographer William Navidson–and we have Zampano’s story told to us in pieces by Johnny, and then we have Johnny’s story included in pages long footnotes at times.
The beauty of this book is you become part of the story. You are shoved into your own obsession with the Navidson brothers as they try to explain this house that cannot be explained. It’s a psychological horror of which I’ve never seen before, and it takes you on a circular journey of your own past as you work through the mysteries with Navidson. Not only that, you are given insight into a very tragic character in Johnny Truant. I think I felt a platonic love for him by the end of the book because of his story, all of which I cannot verify if it was real or not. And by that I mean within the confines of the story. Was he telling me the truth or was it drug addled nonsense? Either way, I wept for Johnny at several moments.
I would like to go further into the symbolism of the house, but I feel like that trudges into spoiler territory, so if you’d rather not have spoilers, please skip away from the page.
The house is a pleasant enough place at first, set up in the middle of nowhere, Maryland. Inside the house, the family consists of Will, known as Navy, Karen, and their two children. The children each have their own rooms, and then Will and Karen have their room, and as all beginnings are, this is a hopeful place. A place of renewal.
A hallway appears first, connecting the bedrooms upstairs, creating a void of light. And then the door arrives in the living room, the door on the outside wall. When the door is opened, another hallway is revealed, and throughout the course of the story, Navidson ends up exploring it with his brother and one of his friends.
To me, the entire book from Zampano, to Johnny, and even the Navidson crew, it’s not about the house. It’s about the ways we try to keep ourselves hidden from those we love most. Those who would know when something is wrong just by looking at us. It’s about knowing oneself so painfully well that every interaction with a new person will go nowhere because we know we aren’t going to meet their expectations.
It’s grief.
It’s encompassing fear of the unknown.
It’s love.
I feel like I’m not giving the words justice. I feel like I’m not explaining just how deep of an impact this book had on me. Saying it’s my new favorite book of all time feels dramatic, like I’m making bold claims after only having read it once, and it’s a book that almost requires multiple reads. It’s formatted like someone went after it with a hammer and super glue, bending pages to fit into whatever origami felt right at the moment. There are footnotes within footnotes. Some of the text is backwards. Some pages only have two words, some have one. Entire spaces are condensed into a haphazard mess of black Xs across red strikethrough.
It is chaos, just as the house is chaos.
And yet, it’s home.
*******I read the 2000 Random House full color remastered paperback edition*******
Effulgent is the face of a four-year-old as she steps into the standing water in her side yard. Her father has already told her twice not to do so, but the stick in the center needed saving. As did the leaves. Sodden socks removed and replaced with dry ones, rubber rain boots exchanged for the baby crocs she wore at first.
She is invincible.
With a smile back at those watching her, she sweeps her feet into the water, soaking instantly the dry socks, her tiny jeans, and part of her jacket.
The leaves are safe now, though.
She sits off to the side, near the fence she’s almost as tall as, and she removes her boots one at a time, dumping out the water. Entirely too pleased with her results, she stands back up and begins again. Once more filling her boots so that when she takes a single step out of the muddy water, it squirts from her boot and she looks over at the cackle I’ve made.
It truly is a sight I don’t think I can put in words properly. My niece is my favorite person on this earth and she will never know just how much she’s taught me. The small things that seem so instant, so demanding of my time are absolutely not of any importance when one must dance like the LED ballerinas on her videos. Or become a horse so she can direct me around the living room, but never on the kitchen tile because my knees are no longer as young as I think I am.
Her radiant and pure joy as I get out of my car, her little bounces because she can’t wait to run to me and tell me all about what she has planned for my visit, there are no actual words for the peace it fills me with.
I had not been well. In fact, I’d been too close to the side of me that wants to cut the losses and go. So close I had to take time off of work to find my way back to myself. My true self, not the one broken and hanging on by a mere thread of a root at the precipice of a cliff. The one buried alive under a hill of dirt clods, dry and yet still clumped enough to be in the way. Each attempt to dig out meant effort I couldn’t find. The light I’d found kept becoming reburied and I’d have to rest.
I talked to my brother one night, right at the beginning of understanding I was not, in fact, okay. And at one point, I stood beside him as he sat in his desk chair and he held me the tightest he’s ever held me and let me cry on top of his head because I didn’t have the words to say how scared I was. How uncertain of anything I was.
But he knew. He knew the way he knows what his daughter needs before she knows she needs it.
I am no longer stuck in the mud like a four-year-old’s boot as she tries to maneuver her way out without falling. I am sweeping my feet through the puddle, the joy on my heart is effervescent and I am ahead of where I was when I started sliding into despair.
Mud puddles are not places to get stuck. They are places to save leaves and prod with sticks and see the way the dirt swirls as it saturates.
There will be other sad times. For now, I am turning my face toward the sun, feeling the warmth on my skin as though for the first time, and I am okay.
Who am I? I asked myself this question immediately following the finishing of this book and I feel like if Foer knew that, he’d either be pleased or he’d find me pretentious. But I didn’t ask it out of anything other than a gut reaction to the book ending. Foer is able to wield emotion like a sword, but with enough subtlety that it hits you after you’ve gone by a few pages, and you have to pause and sit in the feeling for a moment before you can go forward. It took me a bit to get into this book. I honestly didn’t remember why I picked it up (it’s got a sticker from the bargain bin on the back, so that’s the most likely reason, and I know I like his writing style, so I solved my own mystery), and as I read about the marriage of Jacob and Julia, I questioned even more why I grabbed it. It was about a loveless marriage, but also a marriage full of too much love. The kind of love you think is stagnant, but is actually hiding behind hurt. Unspeakable only because to voice the hurt would make it known to those who haven’t hurt you, but those you love and you don’t want to show them your vulnerability.
That kind of love is my favorite. And as I was slowly absorbed into the unfolding of this marriage, the explosion of a worldwide crisis of possible war, the outlook on Jewish people by the rest of the world, it all settles together in such a way you forget you’re reading about something heartbreaking. I think love is the entire theme of the whole book. There’s familial, romantic, platonic–it’s all in there. It’s the love that hurts, but the impermanence of pain is what draws me to it. It’s the understanding that while what I feel might be in the realm of anguish, it is not forever and I will be okay.
I told a friend of mine about some of this, my reaction to the book. But it was 3 a.m. and I’d had to read a brain numbing romance novel to get my head to calm down (seriously, all those people need to do is talk to each other. The lack of common sense and communication in those books is astonishing, but then I realize it’s real life in a way we aren’t ready to admit to, which I also know sounds like the opposite of calming my brain down). A sense of yearning took over, and I was filled with wanting. To be enough, to be wanted. And the part that makes my heart break is I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to accept that I am already good enough. I am wanted. Just as I am. It causes an ache in my ribs. When I breathe. I inhale, almost like when I run, and the life that fills me also takes my breath away.
The last time I wrote in my physical journal, I started a list of resolutions and I will expand on it offline. I know you might be wondering why this has anything to do with the book of this post, but I’ll get there. A person I follow on YouTube was talking in a recent video about how she calls resolutions her “intentions.” What does she intend for herself? The start of a new year, the reset, the fresh feeling. Some part of me that lingers in my self-hate is disgusted by the positivity of it.
But I think about a sunrise. A sunrise after walking all night, being so stuck in my head, unable to fully see even though all I’ve been doing is looking.
The sky lightens, letting the earth know what’s coming, but it’s that first burst of bright. That explosion of color that scars the sky and yet whispers hello.
My hope lives there. In that moment, that crack of a new day. Flash in the pan, almost. It holds me, though. Gives me enough courage to approach life one day at a time until a year passes and I am no longer witnessing the sunrise, I am the sunrise.
That’s who I am. I am hope, burning across the morning dimness with a gasp of colors. I am not ending. I am beginning and I am afraid. Afraid of understanding. Afraid of seeing. Not of failure, because I’m not failing.
I am becoming.
And that’s what this book did for me. I don’t know that I would say Foer is my favorite author, but he writes in a way that helps the world make sense as I see it. While I’m not a middle-aged Jewish man, or his wife, or their three sons, I have felt at times what they have, and seeing emotions I know so well, written in a way that feels like I’ve been flayed while saying thank you is something I don’t know I’d get from anyone else.
I give this book an 8.5/10
*******I read the 2016 Farrar, Straus and Giroux hardback edition*******
This post will contains personal feelings things so if you aren’t interested, please skip. I hope you are doing okay.
Spending too much time in my head is not always a bad thing, but usually it tends to get me into thought spider webs. I know that what I have is rare, a self-awareness to know exactly what I’m feeling and how to express it. Not everyone has this, which is fine, but it makes it challenging to present my real self to others because I get seen as emotional or moody, when all I am is trying to be honest. I hide so much of myself because I don’t want to be seen as “unstable.”
It’s less about stability and more about accepting the parts of myself I know are the truth. I am probably going to feel things on a different level than most of my friends, my family, and the potential partners I might have. I’ve said I’m okay with being alone, and mostly I am, but the reason I’m okay with being alone is I don’t want to feel like I have to constantly hide my feelings.
What I will say is I feel like I learned at such an intense level I should hide myself. I should keep myself tucked away because no one wants to see that. No one wants to be around that. No one knows how to handle such vivid and clear emotion. Anyone I do end up with “has their work cut out for them,” as I’ve been told a few times.
I’m not a lot to handle. I can be eager to express myself, which may come off as too much, but it goes back to my desire to be honest, and to be authentic. I hate saying that because it sounds so trite, but when you spend so long trying to be “normal,” or trying not to be “high maintenance,” you get kind of tired of it.
I don’t need to be maintained, I need to be understood.
And yes, sure, the “right person” will be able to, but it still sucks to put hope into something that ends up failing. Obviously, being vulnerable is awful. No one wants to do anything that will make them feel inferior or like what they feel is unworthy of mention.
But how are you going to know you’re worth something to yourself if you don’t at least try to prove yourself wrong?
I published my first book. It’s out there in the world now, and that’s why I’ve been gone for so long. It went live on Amazon back on May 31st, and I kind of forgot this blog existed until a few days ago.
I probably should share a link to it, so I’ll do that at the bottom of this post. It’s available in paperback or on Kindle. There are some minor errors in the printing, but you know what? I care, but not that much. The story doesn’t suffer from those small errors, and there aren’t any glaring spelling issues so I’m leaving it as it is. I’m not intending to make it big, just wanted to tell a story I love.
So, that’s what I’ve been up to. I’m currently working on the second book, The Keeper of Time and that has been smooth sailing (which is difficult for me to accept sometimes because it technically took me about fifteen years to write Fulcrum).
I hope you are well! Thank you for sticking with me. I think I’ll attempt to make more of an effort at updating this blog from now on, but please do forgive me if I go on a hiatus for no reason other than I forget.
The following post discusses weight related issues as well as some disordered eating. If these topics are triggering for you, please do not continue.
My body has not felt like my own for about a year now. More than a year, really, but I don’t feel like being technical. I’ve mentioned before how I lost weight, and while I’m still not at the goal I wanted for myself, the getting there has been more of a challenge than I think I let myself believe it would be.
No one ever talks about the ugly side of weight loss. We see the photos of slimmed down people, and sometimes they briefly mention how hard they’ve worked, but I rarely see anyone go too far down the discussion of exactly how hard they work. I’ve been trying to lose three pounds for about four months. I’ve been in calorie deficits, and picked up my exercise, and I know how to lose those last three pounds, but it is just not happening.
This is discouraging because I still see myself as overweight. But the worst part about it all is I no longer know my body like I used to. When I was about fifty pounds heavier, I knew my limits. Now, I feel soft and squishy in places I didn’t notice before because there’s a tightness in the skin when you have so much heft. Sitting down is painful for me because my ass is disappearing and my bones touch the surface of what I’m sitting on. I jiggle when I walk, and I feel it. I’m sure I did before, but I didn’t feel it, and now that I can, I know it’s more pronounced and people can probably see it.
I can’t eat like I used to. This may be a good thing for some, but as an emotional eater, sometimes I have a painful need to binge and I can’t because I get fuller faster and the emotional satiation doesn’t happen. So I overeat anyway, and then end up wanting to vomit to relieve the pressure on my shrunken stomach.
The stretch marks on my thighs look like turkey neck skin when I scrub my body after a run, and I get grossed out with the wobble they still make when I take a powerful step because I don’t move slowly anymore. I’m not a fast person, but I became one because there’s a need to leave myself behind even more so now.
My lung capacity is greater, but I still ache and creak and I notice it more and more. Each time I have to shift myself in my seat because my knees are aching, or my hips are tighter or whatever the reason, I notice it and it angers me.
I am angry at this body. I am angry that it isn’t what I want and yet I am terrified to lose it. The continued loss of who I was, the destruction of the person I thought I was, it’s not just physical. It’s excruciating to see what I’ve limited myself to because I didn’t think I was worth the time to learn.
How many things have I shuttered closed in my head because I believed I was too fat? Too massive, too bloated, too gross to ever be considered beautiful?
I am angry at this body because it’s making me learn to love it.
This is going to be a personal one, so if you’re not up for feelings, please skip this post. I won’t be offended.
My favorite thing to do in the beginning of spring is drive home with my windows down. Daylight Savings Time swung us back to the sun being up when I leave work and because of that, I get to experience the most beautiful time of the day. The golden hour before sunset. Have you ever driven at a high speed with your hand out the window and the sun beaming itself directly into your eyes? Terrifying. And yet, stunning.
It makes my eyes water.
It burns them.
Tears whip down my face with scalding accuracy that only happens when I cry for myself, which never happens. I am beautiful in that hour. That drive home. I am just as stunning as the sun because nothing matters. I am between the earth and the sky and the brilliance of the light is pulling me together. Holding me on its shoulders so I no longer have to hoist the burdens I place upon myself alone.
It’d be easier to let others see how hard I work to keep myself steady. How fiercely loyal I am to them, dedicated to make sure they live the lives they can with as much ease as possible. No one should ever feel inferior. I will let myself be trampled if it means someone else is able to shine.
Does that make me sound like I view myself as a martyr? I don’t. I don’t want anyone to see me.
And yet, I want to be known. Life really is one great big paradox and I still keep trying to solve it.
The rush of air fills my lungs, much in the way running steals it away. It pushes into me, through my nose and mouth, sometimes choking in its eagerness to give me life. To fill me to the brim with the desire to be more.
To become.
To exist within the world I see.
To be the bold, golden beam of light for others.
The buffeting wind on my skin, the promise of further breath. The sweet grass coming in along the side of the road, baking in the sun all day, letting go its almost saccharine scent as the light fades.
As I slow down to turn onto my street, I understand what it means.
Okay, listen, I know I’m behind. I know, I know. I’ve decided to do a quick “hey, here’s what I read, maybe you’ll like it, too” post because while I could go through and review each of these individually, some of them are too short for a full post, and the others I don’t want to ramble as I’m wont to do.
Kicking things off here we have two books I received in a book subscription box probably almost five years ago and I started them but never finished them. So, I told myself not to let them sit unread on the shelf any longer, and wouldn’t you know it? In one, I only had ten pages left of it to read. Good job, past me. Fantastic work. Livin’ that dream.
Blue Fox by Sjon
This book follows a hunter on his trek to take down an elusive fox. The air is absolutely frigid, and the sun is harsh. It’s a stark, desolate sounding landscape, and yet there is life within. Sjon creates an atmosphere so well, one can almost see their breath while reading this book. It may sound trite and pretentious, but I thoroughly enjoyed the hubris of it all. A quick read if you don’t take five years to finish it. ******I read the 2008 Farrar, Straus, and Giroux paperback edition******
Gutshot by Amelia Gray
Another quick read, this is full of short stories, almost flash pieces (some are definitely not flash). When I first started reading it, I was enthralled by it. When I finished it, I was disturbed. This is not to say the writing is bad. It’s very unique and has a way of sticking into your brain after finishing one of the pieces. I felt like I’d witnessed something I probably shouldn’t have, and kept walking, left to ponder the choices I’ve made in my life to this point. *******I read the 2015 Farrar, Straus, and Giroux paperback edition*******
So You Don’t Get Lost in the Neighborhood by Patrick Modiano
I found this book on a trip I took with my stepmom and I picked it up because the title was so intriguing. It’s translated from French, and sometimes I worry that the translations can miss the nuances of the original language (I’m lookin’ at you, Witcher books). What can be lyrical and absolutely beautiful in one language can sometimes be stilted and jarring in another. That is not the case for this book. I’m going to say it’s very French, something I have only my preconceived notions about what is “French” to back me up on, but it’s charming, somewhat dark, and left me wondering if I solved the mystery or if I just needed to enjoy the ride. It follows the story of a man trying to figure out a distant memory from his childhood, brought about by a mysterious man who shows up with a folder and a name. The name brings him back to memories he’d tucked away for later, maybe never again. It sets him on a small trail of wonder and intrigue. It’s a lovely told story. The ending is kind of unclear, but I also finished it when I was really tired, so that is probably on me. *******I read the 2015 Houghton Mifflin Harcourt hardback edition*******
On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong
This book left me for dead. I know that sounds really dramatic and kind of problematic, but the amount of weeping I did after reading this is almost embarrassing. It is beautiful. It isn’t for everyone, but if you are ready for a look at sexuality, race, immigration, prejudice, a whole slew of things, please read this. So many moments in this are heart wrenching, but there is always this underlying hope. A potential for it to end well. It is stunning.
Written as a letter to the speaker’s mother, the young man tells the story of love and loss in such a way that leaves you breathless. It asks why, hypothesizes the answers, but then never fully commits to one, letting you work on it for yourself. *******I read the 2021 Penguin paperback edition*******
Well, well, well. I kind of disappeared, didn’t I? I got the book finished to a point. It’s being read by betas right now, and I’m doing my second to last round of edits, the final round being when I go through for typos and minor grammatical things. But then it’ll be ready for the “fun” things. I’m going to self-publish, which will be a post for another time, but rest assured the moment it becomes available, I will let y’all know.
Today I wanted to talk about how my January went. Yes, I know it’s March, and yes, I know I could have posted this last month, but I neglected everything last month. Not just this blog. My personal journal suffered, my friendships suffered, I didn’t spend much time with my family. I got the whole book typed up, printed it off, and that was incredible. I got to see my book printed for the first time. Actually took a selfie with it, which should tell you how excited I was about it, because I never take pictures of myself.
Proof
But that’s all February. I’m here to talk about January. I’m an ambitious person, and I decided to start this year out with a bang. Challenging myself to not one, not two, but three different “challenges” just to prove I could. Veganuary, a pantry cleanout, and a no-spend directive.
Veganuary
This one feels like a no brainer for me, because I’m already mostly vegan, I just get a little emotionally attached to cheese on a difficult day. For the month of January, though, I try to avoid even that and see how I can be creative in the kitchen. It’s something I’ve participated in for the last three or four years, and I never really talk about it to people because as I’m sure I’ve said here before, I don’t judge people on what they eat. It’s not my place. Hunger is a prevalent problem everywhere, especially in places with famine or drought, and I’m not about to go after someone for spending .35 on a box of generic macaroni and cheese versus 3.99 a pound for cauliflower. The cost of living is rising, too, so I think it’s okay to give ourselves a little grace nowadays when it comes to eating what we want. And I drifted away from January again. But that’s okay, because I can segue into the next challenge. It added a new dimension of difficulty to my food choices.
Pantry
I have several items in my pantry (shelf stable) I’ve had in there for more years than I’d like to say. Rice, lentils, quinoa, that kind of thing. Since I was working on Veganuary I had to find interesting ways to utilize the stuff I already had. I didn’t do well the first week because most of the items in my pantry are things you have to cook to add to other things, or flavor well, and while I was doing my best to keep my head above itself, I had a bunch of residual holiday depression lingering in the back of my mind. I ate the convenience foods first, and then when I ran out of those, I ate the easiest to cook things like pasta and nutritional yeast. I did lose about five pounds in the month of January because I wasn’t eating much of anything.
No-Spend
I didn’t have an easy way to segue into this, so pardon the abruptness, but for this challenge, it was more to see how I could go without fast food. I have such a dependence on easy solutions, and I struggle to allow myself the satisfaction that comes from accomplishing something requiring effort. That goes so deeply into more than just a no-spend requirement. It delves into the appreciation of self I seem to constantly find myself striving toward. I was about to go on a horrible tangent on the word choice of “strive” but I’ve already diverted from the main topic of this paragraph already. So, for the month of January, I didn’t want to buy anything. No groceries, no fast food, no toilet paper (it’s just me in my house, so don’t worry, I was fine with what I already had), nothing.
Discussion
So what did I learn? I already touched on my dependence on cheese, and my dependence on easy, but to take it further, I learned how quick I am to fall into old habits. I did end up spending a bit more money at Target after the challenges ended, but I was absolutely out of everything. As one would be. And so with a restock of supplements and vitamins, household cleaners, and other various things, it became apparent that my relationship with money has been chaotic at times. I’m not going to go too far into that because that’s a different level of personal I don’t know I want to share on the internet, but it was interesting to me to see what became “oh, I’ll stop at Target on the way home so I can grab this snack, this thing, this something else, and blah, blah, blah.”
What is the point? The point is, I want to go back to the questioning of “do I really want this or is this an impulse?” It’s something that fits just about all facets of each challenge. How quickly do I turn to comfort foods because my emotions are so high and food functions as a punishment instead of a comfort? Why don’t I consider the efficiency of shopping for things all at once over random stops several times a week? How do I utilize what I have already to keep myself fed and content?
Several things to consider. And I leave you with that, for now. I have plans for blog posts more frequently now that the book stuff is kind of slowing down. I hope you are having a good day or week whenever you read this.
salisbury.fake 