The Surrender

Lately I've been taking a lot of comfort in the experiences of people who have been declared medically dead. The universal report: a white light, a whooshing tunnel, a feeling of immense peace and relief. The knowledge that all that you love remains intact and you will be reunited. A hallucination, one that some of us have come close to having while fully alive, usually after taking a ton of drugs.

Whether or not this ultimate fulfillment of our deepest wishes is just the effect of our neurotransmitters putting on one last show before they shut down, the fact that it's our mind's best possible show, and it comes on right when we need it most, makes me feel, frankly, a lot more optimistic about dying. I spend a lot of time thinking about how I would survive or not survive various deadly situations -- violence, natural disaster, plane crash -- I spend a lot of time bargaining with rapists in my head, picturing myself pinned beneath rubble or plummeting to my death. What do I want my loved ones to know? That I died happy, not terrified or in pain, that I loved them very much, that I knew at the end that it was all going to be all right. I had an endoscopy about two years ago, and when they put the anesthesia in the IV and I felt the heat of it hit my veins, I panicked, and said, "Tell my husband I love him." I lost consciousness to the sound of the nurse laughing.

When I was twenty, I was suddenly seized by the idea that everybody alive at that moment would be dead soon, all of us, everybody, none of us would survive, and I almost couldn't walk down the street without screaming, without exhorting my fellow humans to fight this thing. Now I feel like, you know what, in a zombie apocalypse, I'm not joining the scrappy band of survivors; I'm getting bit and getting it over with. 

The Conversion

I was in the bathroom of an airplane, crying. The Valium had not kicked in, would not kick in, because I'd been stubborn and taken it too late, and once I've started to panic, no pill in the world can fix me. I knew my doom, and I knew it was me, my palpitations and aneurisms, the excruciating awareness of being alive, fragile, terrified, a statistical improbability on an indifferent rock in an unknowable universe. My heart fighting through my chest. Dying of fright. Dying of mortification, of regret, such regret! Such a short, stupid life, and wasted! Wasted on things like watching TV and holding grudges when the only thing in life, the single only thing in life that matters is being good and giving love, and why have I not devoted myself to this? Why do I not apply myself, every second of every day, to that which is most profound to me? And how can I not die, how can I stand to live with myself, knowing as I do that as soon as I get off this airplane I will stride through the airport and get in a taxi and forget this? 

For girls with short fuses and long memories

I was on Facebook other night, looking at the profiles of the many awesome people I've been lucky enough to befriend through Girlbomb. Many of them have struggled with some of the same issues I dealt with -- crazy moms, running away, institutionalization, sleeping around, bad habits, terrible relationships, depression, and self-harm. Wanting to be a writer, wanting to be a good person, wanting to really live life, and not knowing how. Issues I still struggle with today.

I am so grateful to have these friends and correspondents and readers, people who have been so honest and empathetic with me, and I don't think I show my gratitude -- I know I don't show it, because I rarely write anything for public consumption these days. I spend all day working on novels, memoirs, and journal entries, and I rarely feel comfortable sharing it, which saddens me. I have the most supportive and encouraging audience, and what I really want to do is to write for you.

I'd also really love it if you started writing for each other. I'm thinking about revamping this website over the next few weeks, calling it Girlbomb, and inviting contributions from the many amazing writer/readers/commenters who have reached out about the book -- submissions and suggestions are most welcome. 

In the meantime, I'm going to remember who I started writing for -- not just myself, but for the other girl bombs, the young women (and the older ones, and even the men ones, too) on the verge of exploding. The incendiary ones, the ones about to burst into brilliant light and sound; the girls I lived with at the shelters and group homes and the women they've become. The outcasts, the addicted, the marginalized, the lonely, and those who've overcome it, those who've lived through it, and found a home inside their own skins.

I'd forgotten that this blog isn't for me. It's for you. Tell me what you want to hear, and -- more importantly -- what you want to say. 

Put up a post, deleted it.

As always, it was way too personally revealing, and professionally ill-advised. 

I miss the days when I didn't give a shit about that.