The Weather

One of the most psychologically impactful introductory week exercises everyone who rolls through the rehab facility I attended does, regardless of the nature of their trauma history or their particular addiction, is to write a letter to the person (or people) who they feel most afraid to confront and then read it out loud to a vision of them seated in an empty chair. The counselor and a few fellow patients serve as silent witnesses in the dimly lit room, watching and listening as you read. Afterward, you say these words, as many times as necessary, to feel some somatic, psychic release:

I give you back your shame.

I’m ashamed of America, but that wasn’t at the top of what I felt this time, weaving through the waves of despair that knocked me over in a concentrated succession late last night; I felt shame for myself. I mean, duh, I guess. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice…

The muscles in my body spontaneously contracted to the point of numbness and tingling, which is a triggering experience in and of itself because it’s immediately identifiable as nerve pain and the first time I experienced this decades ago, it led to an operation that resulted in trying to manage the unresolved post-surgical pain through exponentially increasing milligrams of oxycontin over several years, which due to the way the opiates were intentionally designed, resulted in a near-deadly addiction, and specifically induced a reverse palliative effect which meant the pain signals in my body got crossed severely enough so that as the doses increased in strength, everything hurt more instead of less.

A person sensitive to metaphor could learn a lot from all that, and I’ll tell you the main thing I learned is this:

There is no fucking way I’m going through that shit again.

The weather in New York City is beautiful, and it’s beautiful because it’s way too warm and it’s way too warm because of what we’ve done to the Earth, but the thing is, today, it’s still beautiful.

Here’s what the self-preserving part of my brain decided at some point in the last few hours, the part that has a direct line to my soul, which I do believe is tethered inexorably to the fabric of the entire Universe and, for the record, if you’re reading this right now, I believe yours is too.

I decided I’m giving back the shame to the people who deserve it.

I decided, almost without intention — as though the better angels were reminding me their whole deal is not leaving us when shit goes sideways — that if the grinding efforts of so many beautiful, enormous-hearted, tenacious volunteers, if, despite her hyper-qualified resume, ceaseless energy, and clear-eyed empathy, all of which were supercharged in service to a near-flawlessly conducted, if abbreviated, campaign, this grim outcome was inevitable because our country still hasn’t evolved enough to unhook from the brutal misogyny and abhorrent racism hardwired into our national sub-cortex, then I refuse to be ashamed of how I felt in the 105 days leading up to it.

I refuse to apologize for 105 days of solidarity among more diverse coalitions than I’ve ever seen join together in this tangled land, or for being inspired by the steadfast bravery and depth of integrity from people I would never have expected, or for all the shivering joy and raw hope and blinding optimism that accompanied it.

I would rather have believed in her and us and been wrong than not believed in her and us and been right.

The grief is deep, and it is real, and so is the trauma, and I won’t try to convince anyone to stay positive today, including myself, though there was a little bit of good news too.

I will tell you what I am not going to do because it’s what I did last time, and ultimately made the pain worse. I’m not going to keep myself glued to “the news.” I’m not going to argue with strangers on social media or otherwise compulsively try to be clever online. I’m not going to shut down to the point of paralysis or numb to the point of drowning what desperately wants to come out.

I will keep writing and taking pictures of trees, flowers, water, and the sky. I will keep complimenting strangers and finding a way to make those who are quiet feel heard and those who are solitary feel seen. I will keep stretching my body when it hurts and resting my mind when it’s tired. I will keep my heart open because it’s the only way I learned how not to lie down and die.

I will keep studying beauty like it’s my job and consuming art like it’s medicine, and I will keep telling the people I love how much I love them.

Again.

Again.

And again.