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

I’m turning 18 and that’s scary.

I am addicted to the ocean and though Grammy said to come back from my walk before dark, after the sun sets right before our eyes and the only lights left are those twinkling condos in the west and iphone flashlights, I will my ankles to move but they remain grounded in the sand. You can see the whole sky out here, almost the entire earth in all directions. This is how it was supposed to be, I think. I stand in the ocean and let its moody waters cleanse me. Walk Between Worlds by Simple Minds and Forward by K. Michelle massage my heart. I want to believe that God is here in the vastness. Something created this, all of it, and put me here to witness the great becoming and unbecoming of the blue, how the waves claim their individuality for a second before dissolving into their universe. I want to believe that the ocean is a part of me too. I want to bottle up this security, this eternity, this faith that there is a reason why I am exactly where I am right now, and take it with me to the city.

Continue reading “I’m turning 18 and that’s scary.”

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”

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”

Sadie

I had a roommate named Sadie* (the girl of the mountains, aka ping-pong extraordinaire)

Crafting dark fairy tales out of the air

(of blood feet glass slippers love broken eyes dreams yellow hair beans and hope and hope and hope and hope and hope and hope)

My childhood memories would never be the same.

We talk parallel universes and black holes, quantum physics and time travel, paradoxes and the nature of fire. We travel the universes in our minds while our bodies are confined to an 11 x 12 room.

Then I ask her if she is glad she didn’t die.

She asks me if I am glad I didn’t die. Continue reading “Sadie”