Hello, reader. How are you doing? I was just thinking about who kept me alive when I was in my 20s.
content warning: mentions of suicidal desire
I was seriously traumatized in my youth. Then that decade of 20-30 as I healed– it was a lot of work to stay alive. The lost decade, I hid out a lot.
I don’t wanna tell you about the day I turned 21, and my mom drove to Santa Barbara to take me to dinner. Oh my god, I miss her. Part of me is still in that Italian restaurant, holding her hand.
Somewhat my mom kept me alive, but at what cost? Her fear of my suicide was exh-fucking-austing. She was chasing down my sad moods like they were moles she was trying to whack. She told me to put on happy music and dance. Decades later I listen to her.
My second husband somewhat kept me alive, as someone to react to and respond to. Someone to attempt family with, who helped pay the bills as I agoraphobia-ed and psychosis-ed and panic attacked. Yikes! I’m sorry!
Phyllis
The one who kept me alive in my 20s the most was my friend Phyllis. She was old enough to be my grandma but was my best friend in Sacramento for years. I remember the layout of her apartment, then her unit at the assisted living facility. She held me under her wing. She helped keep me safe at the ashram.
So kindly, Phyllis welcomed me. Patiently, she told me stories of her life until I knew the stories better than her and filled in the details as the years passed and I remembered better than she did.
“Oh, I already told you that story before,” she said.
“It’s ok,” I said. “I like hearing again.”
faith
That stable kindness saved me. I didn’t have steady faith yet–I hadn’t yet almost died and been led out of the jungle by Jaguar.
These days no one does that for me. Maybe Ming does, but I don’t need it the same way. Phyllis was a full-on grown up when I was still a kid inside, a lost child. Never telling me what to do, but steady for me, holding one end of a long thread.
Phyllis didn’t understand or validate my queerness. But she understood my spiritual longing. She shared my thirst for the Divine. There was no rush. I would find God Consciousness, or I wouldn’t. Meanwhile, there was a puja to sing at, gardens to weed, community drama to dodge, a newsletter to mail.
She ruined her dress by leaving lipstick in her pocket again– it went through the drier. She hugged me hello and goodbye, and cried to me about her son. I needed her, and she was there for me. I served on the board then quit suddenly. Her accent, her haircuts, her teeth, her elder shoes. The farm she came from.
She taught me how to play harmonium. In the gardens, she taught me bed straw and vinca. Long before, she had painted pumpkins with kids who were in her care at the psych hospital. She was a doctor of nursing, a teacher, a healing touch therapist, a writer, a survivor.
She told the truth when her family wanted her to shut up– she was bravely amazing.
what about me?
Who am I keeping alive these days? Hopefully no one. Ming and I interdepend, and I love my chosen family member as much as they let me. But I’m not sure I’m like Phyllis, holding deep faith for a young person who doesn’t have deep faith yet.
I make zines and write these blog posts. I do ritual, and I pray. The art I make is visual prayers. I’m trying.
(The Icarus Project and Sufjan Stevens kept me alive in my 30s.)
