Hiya Tuesday! (Be Careful What You Wish For)

Hiya Tuesday! (I skipped Monday because it was a holiday, and honestly I simply forgot). But today, I turned on my laptop, opened Word, and this is what came out:

Two weeks ago, I was completely numb, so I asked the inter-verse (internet, Instagram, social media scrollers) for recommendations for TV shows that would make me feel. Make me emotional. Make me cry. So that I could remember what it was to feel. Numbness is poison to inspiration, and I didn’t want my burn out, my absolute indifference to the world, to all the chaos, to affect my writing. I needed to drown the numbness out with some brutal, raw, emotional, visual storytelling. But as the saying goes: be careful what you wish for because you just might get it.

And it came from the television show Maid on Netflix, about a young woman fleeing her abusive boyfriend, and trying to start over again as a single, unemployed mother, while also caring for her own mother who is undiagnosed bipolar. It is a fantastic show. Grueling, important, exceptional. It is one of the best shows I have ever watched, and I highly, highly, recommend it (with trigger warnings, of course). Margaret Qualley, who plays the young mother, Alex, is a phenomenal actress. She brought authenticity, raw emotion, and intense vulnerability to the character, and really pulled me in as a viewer. And although there were many incidents and experiences that she went through that I never did; I was absolutely triggered. Maybe it was too good, too authentic. I binged it in a couple of days, and during that period my anxiety spiked, my depression sunk in, and I spent hours, days stuck in the past. Because what I could relate to—Alex’s unstable upbringing, Alex having to parent a parent, Alex’s memory loss, Alex’s repressed memories coming back to life like a baseball to a baseball bat, causing intense panic attacks—resonated with me so deeply, I was plucked from the present and tossed into the past.

I felt tender. Like if I poked my skin, lightly, with the tip of my finger, I would bruise. Like if someone looked at me wrong, or mumbled something unintelligible under their breath, I would break. Like if I dropped my hair tie one. more. time, or spilled water down my shirt while drinking, or suddenly tripped over my slipper, I would snap and break everything in the apartment. I was fragile. Triggered. Emotional, sensitive. Things, memories, were coming up, and I was forced to relive them. And it is true—I am not a fool—I know, that to heal one must peer into the wound. A bandage will only cover it, it will not stop the infection from spreading. One must examine the wound before a cause of action, of healing can be prescribed. And I always thought I was on that path. I write about my past in poems, albeit, not directly, I seek therapy, although CBT focuses more on the present than the past. But I haven’t really sat down with myself to reflect. I have memory loss; my childhood, my teenage years are like a window blurred from fog, or the rain. Some parts are clear, but a lot of it is smudged, or just - gone. Sometimes I remember something I believe is a real memory, and then I second guess it. Is this a real memory? Or did I make it up? Or is it from a dream? A memory for me, is a loose thing. It is not solid. It is not a sure thing. It is not tangible. As real as it may seem as it plays out in my mind, it could also be a lie, and that can make me feel crazy.

I know that if I want to heal, if I want to remember, if I want to be heard, I have to start with my mother. And if I couldn’t handle a 10-episode show on Netflix without becoming a triggered emotional mess of a human, how could I handle facing the past? How could I handle unpacking everything? Will I be able to manage it? Will I be able to clean up the mess, or will it consume me? I know I have to try. Because I am heavy, clearly much heavier than I thought I was.

Anyways, I am not normally so (publicly) deep and reflective but its been a very deep and reflective week. And although there has been some good news, and happy dances, there has also been a lot of tears, and anxiety. And when I pressed my fingers to the keys on my laptop this is what came out. This is what I needed to share on this Tuesday afternoon. I don’t have much to offer in the form of advice or some truly witty ending to this post, but I do hope that we all find healing. And that we remember: healing is not a destination, it is a journey, it is the journey.

(Slight spoiler alert for Maid)—Alex, at the end of Maid, sets off on a new journey, (I barely consider it a spoiler, she has many different journeys throughout the show), and that is how it ends: her on the road with her daughter. New possibilities ahead. There is still a lot of pain in her rear-view mirror that she will undoubtedly spend much of her life working through. But the point is, she goes forward. Towards the sun. Towards her dreams. As much as I was triggered, I was also extremely inspired. And maybe, knowing that the show was based on a memoir, it inspired me to write honestly. I hope to be more honest in the future. In my writing, and to myself.

Until next time,

With love,

Teya