The author of Reproduction on “grammatical cathedrals,” moods that linger, and how fiction talks.
We don’t have to be monsters, but we can have a monster as our god. A god of justice, a god of righteous vengeance, a god of fire and fury, a god of Saturnalian fun.
As I moved into a house where I hope to stay forever, I spent a lot of time with things other people left behind.
This year, time flew marked by dishes, laundry, trash, repeat. Occasionally I was seized with the worry that I was not doing the correct things.
I stood up and the top of my skull slammed hard into the ceiling. Weird, I thought, and then I stopped thinking at all.
Days have become generally unmanageable, and for some people it helps a bit to have a dog around, which I encourage.
That’s the thing with emotional abuse. You stop trusting yourself, which makes it hard to be alone, so you stay and you listen to someone else’s version of your shared story.
I thought giving generously would mean, when I needed it, I’d receive help without asking. I am learning that life is not a mind reader.
My memories of these meals carried me, unwaveringly, from month to wretched month—attempting to re-conjure them gave me something to do at my most desperate.
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