Live Oak

I have a pen pal. We write to each other sporadically. His handwriting is tiny and mine sprawls a little, malformed because these days I'm so used to typing. He sends me pretty cards, and I set up my favorites on top of my dresser. Our correspondence doesn't have much continuity, but we send snippets of our lives, sometimes including literal snippets, a leaf or a piece of fabric. He says, "Small steps are still steps."



I feel a bit overwhelmed at the moment. X wants me to go surfing with him, and that's scary. I quit my job (effective in a couple of weeks) and that's scary too.

I want to be brave about trying new things, about experimenting and having fun with X, but the possibility of failure makes me freeze up. Of course, that reaction is crazy. The proposed scenario doesn't even contain the possibility of failure! If I don't like surfing, that's fine. If I'm bad at it, that's fine too. X will still like me. Rationally, I know this.

Losing my income stream (albeit voluntarily) makes me feel out of control. I wonder when I will become a proper grownup. I'm turning 20 next month, but I have very far to go before I'll be able to support myself. I quit my job so I can focus on my personal projects and school, maybe do some freelancing... We'll see.



I hope y'all like the unrelated tree photos.

Worrywort

Skye from My Kingdom for a Hat ("where decorum goes to die"), posing with two worry books. Worry? Not to worry! I've always been prone to fretting. My stress-response is fear.

In slightly related news, I wrote a short essay on depression for Richmond Pulse and/or New America Media's #FeelBetter initiative. That piece is still going through editing, but I also drafted an unfinished alternate version, which focuses on stylish self care. Here it is:

On the bad days, I get dressed in defiance of my mood. Jewelry and lipstick can't entirely dispel a bout of depression, but they demonstrate that I refuse to be limited to sad ensembles. I need to see that when I look in the mirror. Any therapist will agree that how you treat yourself affects your state of mind. When I pretend to be a starlet, devoting time and care to dolling myself up, then I get closer to feeling important.

The worst days are when I can't motivate myself to even look through my closet. I'll open a drawer, feel listlessly unenthused, and shut it again. Working from home means that I can stay in my pajamas all day, but it doesn't mean that I should. Unfortunately, when I'm down in the dumps, I find it hard to motivate myself to do anything that would make me feel better, including putting together an outfit. Luckily I live with my parents. When my mom notices that I'm depressed, she says, "Sonya, put on a pretty dress and we'll go out for lunch." Even if my own initiative is absent, I can still follow orders. Dutifully, I pick out something with a flippy skirt and follow my mom to the car.

Another obstacle to my sartorial success is the reoccurring doubt, "What's the point? I'm not going anywhere and no one is going to see me." I can't get used to the idea of looking good just for the sake of it, or looking good for the sake of pleasing myself. Like many people, I conceive of my appearance as a performance meant for the benefit of others.

// $145 //

Coast Starlight Views

I already posted my thoughts from the train ride up to Portland, but I have yet to share what I wrote on the way back.

// May 6th // 6:23 PM //

The train is embedded in a green forest, made of trees that are not all alike but somehow uniform in their reaching. These woody plants strive in the same way. There are yellow flowers clinging to the cutaway slope with its impossible cliff geometry. In my seat--the dark, stain-resistant, rough cloth--I am both uncomfortably warm and a little chilled. It's my torso that feels claustrophobically hot, and my stiff legs that shiver.



A few seats back, children speak a language that I don't know. Well, okay, it sounds like Spanish, so I do know a few words. The kids are using question words. Also behind me, someone has a phone that makes the same text noise that mine does. I'm waiting for [my boyfriend] to get back to me, to say something flirtatious or affectionate. He is probably busy with work, and with not being needy. I imagine, with minimal sanity, that he despises me.

[...]

The forest keeps blurring past my window, a jumble of jagged lines that draw skinny trunks and abundant soft leaves. The deciduous trees, delighted at springtime, are backed by a row of somber, dark conifers. Princesses with voluminous spirits and kings who know better than to rejoice.

A train is ferociously air-conditioned, the onslaught of chilled wind presumably whisking away the deep saltiness of many humans in a relatively small place. A headache is beginning just under my brow bone. We trundle past a candy-red house, and then a little plane of the same color, perched demurely in a small town's makeshift airfield. It looks vaguely old-fashioned, the tail made of square angles and jutting limbs.

The train has slipped out of the hypnosis of the forest, and now it's visible as a coating on far-off hills. From a distance, the variation of leaves is utterly lost.



In eighth grade my class went on an extended camping trip, the first leg of which was undertaken via train. I don't know if we rode this line at all, but we sped through California, changed trains in some dusty unknown town, and made our way to Colorado, or perhaps first to Utah. What I remember most clearly, I think from the return journey, was making out with [name redacted] when we passed through the tunnels. He was chewing pomegranate gum, which I remember because I went home and wrote a song about how sexy he was, in which the gum flavor figured heavily.

I wish [my boyfriend] were here for a kiss, or that I could sink into his warmth and fragrance. He always smells good: masculine sweat tempered with cologne, and an indefinable personal essence unique to him. I must smell boring in comparison, since I often forget to put on perfume. At least I'm mostly clean.

I love how he reaches for me when we're together. When we walk on the sidewalk, he holds my hand or curls his arm around me. Cooking in his apartment, he draws me to him as he gestures, explaining some epicurean principle. In bed, he presses kisses onto my hair. The pillows and comforter all smell like him.

I worry that I am not enough, or that enough is all I am. I worry that he wanted to get back together merely because I was the easiest option. If I ask him to, he'll tell me that I'm beautiful and intelligent. But I have to ask. And I hate asking, because it makes me feel weak. I worry that he will see me as weak, contemptible.

The train rolls steadily, undulating slightly with the land. Trees have surged up next to my window again, but sunlight shoves through the foliage disdainfully. Occasional meadows expose it hot and bright. Almost out of sight, down at the cleft of a valley, I catch glimpses of subdued whitewater.

Bunny Doings

Doof checkin' out the drainpipe:



Doof marking the drainpipe with the scent glands under his chin:



Pumpkin nibbling on dinner:



Pumpkin thinking about other things:

Hiding

Depression is a slow crisis.
I'm in the dark like a mushroom, letting the TV run its mouth.
Ice argues in my pink juice--carbonation, grapefruit and grape--
making sounds against the glass.
Can't work. Can't play.
My engine is idling, protesting the tug of the key.

Exciting Newness & Canine Insecurity

// Brent Pearson //

These days I am pretty consistently not depressed. I definitely still have gloomy periods, but even when I'm down, I know that the feeling will pass. That is revolutionary! Before, when I would get mired, it was like mired was all that existed and all that would ever exist. Sure, I'm still dysfunctional. (Aren't we all?) But mostly I feel okay--I feel good! I'm hardly even scared to write this; barely worried about jinxing my progress.

Who am I when I'm not a depressive? I can define myself in terms of relationships to other people: daughter, girlfriend, sister, etc. But who am I to me? Of course, mental illness wasn't the only key aspect of my identity, so it's not like I feel lost and person-less. Besides, I will never actually let go of being crazy. I would if I could, but to the best of my knowledge the imbalances are permanently built into my brain. Still, now I get to conceive of myself as a creative, because I am doing things; making things.

// Peyri Herrera //

I walked my neighbor's dog a few times recently. Button is a sweet pup, but she's not well-trained. For instance, occasionally she tries to veer off into the street, and I have to put my weight on the leash to keep her on the sidewalk. What's more odd and very touching is that she needs to be reassured a couple of times when we're out. She'll look up at me with mournful eyes, and press against my legs, curving her body around me in a half-hug. Then I pet her and tell her she's a good girl, which she mostly is, and she leans on me. Button has thick fur, black with caramel markings, and she's warm against my shins. I run my hands over her sides and scratch behind her ears.

It feels good to comfort another creature. And I can relate to Button's need for reassurance. I think a similar impulse is why I started texting my boyfriend "sweet dreams" every night. His affectionate replies assuage my doubts. I wonder all the time, "Am I lovable? Am I annoying you with my need for attention?" Sometimes I outright ask him, "Will you say something nice to me, please?" And he'll reply along the lines of, "Babe, you're beautiful and intelligent." I guess it helps.

[The photo depicts a forlorn-looking dog with Button's coloring, not Button herself.]

Scheduling

I missed my train today. I thought it left an hour later than it did. Amtrak charged me $50 to change my ticket so I can leave tomorrow instead. Luckily, my hosts don't mind having me around for another night. It's good to know that my presence isn't odious, although it is awkward to me.

Mostly I feel like an idiot. What kind of stupid jerk doesn't double-check the ticket? I guess the largest effect it has on me is the loss of $50 and the wasted drive to the station. I should be grateful that I'm in a position where $50 doesn't break the bank. I don't even need to get back to work right away.

// frumbert (Flickr) //

In fact, I am too depressed and slothful to face the idea of working, so I'm just going to loll about, nursing my frustration and reading past issues of The Sun. No, it's not a great coping technique. Sometimes when I'm slumped in the dumps, my mom asks what I've learned in therapy that I could use to comfort myself. I mumble, "I don't know." I can't rouse the energy to do the things that are supposed to fix me.

I hate making mistakes. I hate disrupted plans. I hate rearranging my sense of how things will go.

Rolling Reflections

// Derrick Tyson //

I didn't write much while I was actually on the train, coming here to Portland, even though that was my intent. But I did jot down my impressions before embarking:

// April 30th // 9:21 PM //

I'm waiting at the Amtrak station in Emeryville, on one of the outside metal benches that overlook the tracks. Some kind of empty freight train is rolling along, slow and endless. The night is beautiful. Glowing city lights, on the platform as well as farther off, turn the sky a depthless indigo, by virtue of outshining the stars, stars which I cannot see but whose presence I assume. The air smells neutral, but it's soft and full of the sound of crickets. I didn't know that Emeryville had such a sonorous insect population.

The empty train has run out. A man behind me was pacing, and he's stilled himself. When his steps scraped behind me, I was alert like a prey animal, like a shivering rabbit, purely out of evolutionary instinct. Unknown activity behind one's back is unsettling.

My sister and my father drove me here, to the station. [Her] driving scares the hell out of me. She's new to it--just got her license. That means jerky stops, lagging turn-correction, and plenty of free-floating anxiety for the driver as well as the passengers. I'm glad my dad came, because he stabilized both of our nerves. All a parent has to do is be there. Another primal response is how soothed I feel by his tired affection, even his tired neutral presence. I don't know if [my sister] has the same response--they aren't easy with each other.

A train is arriving, not mine. A metallic voice announced this, listing a number and a destination. Now people are coming out of doors, mostly looking unsure. The train hooted, vibrating in my lungs although I did not emit the sound. I almost jumped. It rumbles constantly, I guess because of its engine. The brakes (I think) make the machine sigh, a whooshing release of air.

[...]

My train's arrival is supposed to be in an hour. Actually it's supposed to be in thirty minutes, but the updated prediction stretches further than the original one. I don't begrudge the delay terribly. I didn't expect this to be an accurate way to travel, at least not temporally. I wonder, though, if I can keep writing for an hour. Will I keep having things to say? I suppose I could turn to fiction, but I suspect that the only stories in me are my own.

The air is cooling down, enough that I donned my cardigan and my scarf. The crickets, or cicadas, or whatever they are, have not ceased singing. Do they keep up the chorus all night? I don't spend enough time in "the small hours" to remember. I can imagine the spindly creatures making their hypnotic melody in a cathedral, lined up like nuns. Parishioners would shrink from a choir of bugs, no matter how pious or talented.

You're only a writer if you write. I want to be a writer, and my best talent is putting words together, so I have to write. I have to build the habit, stretch my literary muscles beyond the expectations of their tissues. I have to rip the bonds between cells, and let them heal, and then rend their connections again. Until they are tough as scars.

// May 1st // 9:51 AM //

I passed the night on this train, or perhaps the night drained out of me. The coach accommodations are like a slightly roomier version of their airborne equivalents. It's possible to sleep, fitfully, but I couldn't sink into a deep resting state.