Don’t be bitter, dear. [A Thanksgiving Reflection]

At one point, my mother read a book called Women Who Run with the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estes. Clarissa looks at all the archetypes of women in mythology, especially that of what she calls the “wild woman” archetype, and discusses what modern women can draw from these mythologies in their daily lives. One day, my mother and I were painting and listening to the audio book when Estes said: “There is a time in our lives, usually in mid-life, when a woman has to make a decision – possibly the most important psychic decision of her future life – and that is, whether to be bitter or not.”

At first I didn’t get it, so my mom explained that there’s a point in your life when you realize that more of your life is behind you than ahead of you. Did you fulfill your dreams exactly as you pictured them when you were 18? If not, are you gonna be bitter about it?

Since my grandmother is the least bitter person I know, I asked her why she isn’t bitter. Surely, tough life experiences have given her license to be bitter.

She’s thinking about it.

I’m just 18. More of my life lies ahead of me than behind me (I hope), and my dreams – learning to illustrate and publishing a graphic novel in poetry about my life, making it to compete in Brave New Voices, moving to New York City – can still be as big as my imagination wants them to be. Yes, I have depression and anxiety and I can be a tiny bit grumpy sometimes when things don’t go my way, but some days I wake up just happy to be here in a place where Nora McInerny exists, and I can get up and bicycle through town anytime I want, and I have access to a world-class podcast studio where I can say and publish whatever the heck I want, and I have friends who will go ice skating with me.

Maybe I’m looking at this from a place of privilege, but to wake up and realize that I live in a world where people like Nora McInerny and R exist and smile because of it, though, is a choice even at 18. Sometimes I wake up and put on my leather jacket and Batman hat in 70-degree weather. I convince myself that the world is against me, so I might as well give up now. My life becomes a Lifetime drama, opera music and all. I reach out to people without being specific about what I need, but hoping for some kind of reaction of pity and shock. Wouldn’t it be so much easier if I actually were the victim, rather than the person who chose to react in a certain way to life events?

In the next stage, I get a sign from God or my therapist and the epiphany hits me again: I am the master of this ship, and I’m the one leading it straight to hell.

“So, don’t,” says my therapist, or some variation of that.

From now on, this one Maya Marie shall be the most resilient and joyful of them all, writing poetry, fighting for social justice, drop-kicking bad guys, and living her life to the fullest.

I recently had to make a tough decision and I chose the one that I think is going to put me in the best zone for my overall mental health in the long run using all the information I had at the time (pro-con list and all), but I sacrificed a lot and it hurts like heck.

My therapist says it be like that sometimes. She says that every choice is a sacrifice, but at least there is comfort in knowing that I exercised my power in making it. She says to claim my power and joy by accepting that life is not perfect but frequently painful.

So that’s my wisdom for today, future daughter: Life is not perfect but frequently painful.

Accept.

Commit.

And don’t be bitter, dear.

Watch this space.

Love,

M

How to Stay Sane in Freshman Year: a Q&A with the Girl Who Didn’t

In the spring semester of 2017, when I was 16, I wrote an article of tips for how to get through your first year of college sane. In the spring semester of 2018, I was admitted into 72-hour-suicide-watch in a locked hospital for wanting to die too much. I figure that pretty much makes me an authority on college students and mental health.

In the article, I had written that suicide is the third leading cause of death among college students. That is still true, and it’s a fact I can now relate to personally. If you’re entering college soon, mental illness is probably something you or someone you know will be able to relate to as well.

Let’s talk.

Continue reading “How to Stay Sane in Freshman Year: a Q&A with the Girl Who Didn’t”

Dear first-year, me too.

Dear first-year.

I’m a little bit— okay, a lot— in love with Glennon Doyle these days. (Sorry, Abby Wambach). In search of some soul soup, I started listening to the Super Soul Sunday podcast. Every Sunday or so, Oprah Winfrey invites all these spiritual leaders and visionaries to her house under the oak trees and asks them scary questions like, “What does God mean to you?” and “Walk me through the most traumatic thing that’s ever happened to you so we can all learn how to be this Hulk strong,” etc. There’s researchers, comedians, priests, nuns, old presidents, TV anchors, the Office stars, and pretty much anyone who ever struck Oprah a certain way because when you’re rich and famous you can sap wisdom from anyone you want.

Continue reading “Dear first-year, me too.”

50 Things to Remember When You Feel Like Giving Up

The week that the news scrambled to memorialize Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain and hotline numbers began to populate my social media feed, I took my dog Daisy for a walk, carrying the YA Queer Romance book We Are the Ants by Shaun David Hutchinson.

How do I begin to describe how I was feeling that day, sitting at the edge of the rock with my ankles dipped in the lake as Daisy waded a foot in to cool down, trying not to fall? How can I explain the indescribable fury I felt toward a journalist I barely knew for giving up? Why did it feel like personal betrayal when I heard that Kate Spade, someone whose name had never passed under my radar before, did not seek professional help because she felt it would be bad for her brand?

Continue reading “50 Things to Remember When You Feel Like Giving Up”

Prologue: To my readers, with love

I started writing posts for Dear Future Daughter a little over two months ago through an anonymous blog titled And She Will Recover. At the end of a rough and fast year, I knew if I wanted to heal, I would have to return— as I always have— to writing. I needed to process, build up my community, and for myself and others to know that we were not alone.

As many of you know, I’m introverted and deeply feeling [read: reserved and dark], which generally means that small talk makes me want to throttle people. Since I would hate for someone to meet their untimely end simply for trying to talk to me about the weather, I need to find some ways to communicate with people on a deeper, darker level.

But Dear Future Daughter isn’t meant to be a website filled with pages and pages of my own rants about Shonda Rhimes murdering my best friends and people who irritate me. This is a community and a platform for you. Tell me what it is that turns you into a shaken-up ziploc bag of vinegar and baking soda. Tell me what turns you into a pitiful puddle of raw feel. Tell me what you think about politics, about mental heath, about religion. This is the space to shout it out loud. Carve out a piece of your messy, bloody heart and hand it to me on an aluminum pan, for heaven’s sake! It’s why I’ve made a pitch form here. Continue reading “Prologue: To my readers, with love”

We Hold Each Other. Tightly.

The other day, I was hiking with my dog and we stopped at a lake. It was perfect. Cicadas were chirping. A duck even landed right in front of us. I was thinking about Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain, how Kate once said to someone that she wouldn’t get help because it did not go along with her brand. And I was reading We Are the Ants by Shaun Hutchinson. It’s a YA/Romance/Science Fiction mash-up about this kid Henry who is given the choice to save the world from ending but doesn’t want to because he’s bullied and his boyfriend killed himself months ago and everything sucks.

But there’s this boy he’s slowly falling in love with. He asks him, if you knew the world was ending and you could stop it, would you? He looks at Henry strangely, and Henry says, “‘What if I don’t give a shit about the world?’

“That would be fucking sad.’

“‘Why?’

“‘Because the world is beautiful.'” Continue reading “We Hold Each Other. Tightly.”

Love Poem for the Socially Anxious

To the kid in the corner of the party venue breathing asthmatically because you broke your plastic spoon scooping ice cream and the devil incarnate stole your seat to force you to dance and the guy you like is about to leave and you would go talk to him but everyone would be watching you and what would you say you’re an idiot for sitting in the corner and oh God, someone’s looking at you—

To all the socially anxious,

I see you.

Continue reading “Love Poem for the Socially Anxious”

Anthem, or Thirteen Reasons Why Not, or Things I Tell Myself on Dark Nights

1

According to a report by the Department of Agriculture, it costs approximately $233,610 to raise a child, which was enough for my mother to buy 4 porsches or pay off all her student loan debt, but instead she decided to almost give her life and all the blood in her body for me to live a little,

To see the stars and make them my own

And she must have believed that there is goodness enough in this world for these verses to grow that there is strength enough in these verses for these verses to grow.

2

Will she still believe in goodness when I’m gone? Continue reading “Anthem, or Thirteen Reasons Why Not, or Things I Tell Myself on Dark Nights”