Dangerous Compassions

give me the cloth and I’ll wipe my face

dear spouse

“Google is telling me words to say in this email” Ming told me.  Their suggest feature is his dream come true, as he has a language-related learning disability.  Writing an email that would take me three minutes can take him days.

“Yeah, you love it when you’re handed words that help you know what to say,” I said.  Early in our relationship, he plagiarized me, and I flipped out.  He got scared of doing it again.  I appreciate his caution, but I soften my stance.

“I do!” he said.  “Here, read this and see if it’s ok.”

I read the email he was working on.  “Sounds kinda good…kinda standard and boring.  Yep, having a relationship by autofill is sad.”

“Hahaha!  I like that.  You should put that in somewhere.”

“You should put it in the email.  I look forward to working with you in the future.  Having a relationship by autofill is sad.

too many feelings

I’ve been listening to Midnight Organ Fight by Frightened Rabbit.  It’s a really upset breakup album.  He says smart things about sex and loss.

I remember being surprised by the intensity of the anger.  There are some lines “I am armed with the past and a will and a brick.  I might not want you back, but I want to kill him.”  The desire for violence surprised me.  The speaker is a sympathetic character, but I’d rather not face revenge feelings, sometimes.

Then a couple years ago, the singer killed himself.  It was terribly sad, that he’d expressed this unfathomable pain, suffered, and died from it.

Could I have helped?  No, not really–I’m a stranger in another country.  But I’d intimately witnessed his suffering, and then he was dead.

Ugh.  One more suicide.  I didn’t know him, but artists do this work for us–vulnerability.  Sorry you died for our sins.


I want to trust someone that their huge feelings are ok.  I’ve been there–I’m not a mandated reporter.  You can tell me anything you feel.

I know it’s a lie, that professional help is the best help.  I’ve never had a doctor save my life, when I’ve been in an emotional crisis.  Psychiatrists and cops don’t help me.

Building longterm self-love, daily practices that heal me, hard work of facing reality, making plans, failing to implement my plans, trying again.  Kindling faith, intentionality, rest, art, laughter.  Gratitude journaling daily, radical mental health, friendship, zines, physical contact….

Love helps me.  Someone patient, such as Ming, sitting with me, comforting me as I recover my will to live by helping me understand community is possible, or just touching my back or holding my hand, till I can walk again and eat again.

Forced medicating me in a locked facility won’t make me well.  It’ll destroy me for a while, as haldol makes me seem docile and kind of better, but that’s all a lie.  Love is the truth.  What have you found, worth living for?

Psych drugs don’t give me a good life.  My brain is perfectly beautiful.


I listen to this album for its energy, honesty, language brilliance, and insight, but also to honor the guy who died of feelings, and honor everyone I’ve lost to suicide, or lost at all.  There’s an edge and some things I can’t relate to, the anger style different from mine, but I believe everything.

A white guy’s destructive anguish about losing a partner, violently suffused with intense possessive sexual longing, is not my story.  But it’s part of the human experience, and I recognize it.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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