Life, Embargoed.
What’s harder than not writing about life right now? Knowing I may never write about it at all.
“I don’t think you’re scared
you won’t be able to write about it.
I think that you’re scared that
you won’t want to write about it.”
We sat in silence for a minute. It almost felt like we were waiting to see who would flinch first, although we both knew it would be me. Because the lady (me) doth protest too much (duh), and because my therapist can’t be bothered to even blink after bluntly hitting me with a truth I’d rather not believe.
Nearly every aspect of my life feels as if it’s under NDA right now, officially or casually. I’m bought out, payment planned, stacked with IOU’s signed by hand; each contract of silence sealed with a kiss long since passed or a promise the future can’t necessarily deliver. The casual ones at least.
Well, also the official ones.
(Minus any past or future smooches.)
To some extent, this isn’t anything new. Holding secrets and keeping up appearances becomes second nature when no one can know your family is falling apart behind custom-fit bay windows. I learned more about the art of misdirection covering for my parents than I ever did in my magic classes at the rec center; a skill that followed me into adulthood as I seemingly overshared on every platform possible in order to hide all that was painful, prejudicial or perverse.
But I always found
something sparkly to point to.
Look here! Listen to this!
Now, even gold in my life
can’t glitter in the light of day.
One of my greatest talents as a writer is that I write from very personal places, even if it’s disguised as flowery prose about a pinot noir.
It is also one of my greatest weaknesses.
Which has never been more apparent
than it is right now.
There are no more thinly veiled metaphors.
No more costume changes for mood.
No masks that fit a face that is transforming.
It’s just fucking Fleetwood Mac coming on shuffle and me screaming into throw pillows and furiously typing notes into my phone so I don’t forget every detail of this pain and joy and this ending and this beginning that I know in every bone in my body I have to write about.
But I don’t know if I will.
I don’t know that once I get
on the other side of all this,
that I will be able to come back to it.
I don’t know if I want to.
And that’s the scariest, worst thing I can admit— to anyone, but especially myself. Because what’s the fucking point then? What is the point of this experience? What’s the point of my fucking existence within it, if not to make something— anything— out of it? To make it make sense. To make it worth living through. To make fucking magic that I don’t know, makes even one other person feel like months of grief and growth and shock and shame and life and loss and love and lust and the most debilitating depression make sense, make worth living through, and still be magical?
WHAT THE FUCK IS THE POINT OF ME HAVING ONE— YES, 1, SINGULAR— NOTE ON MY FUCKING PHONE WITH NEARLY 10 THOUSAND WORDS?!!?!?!?!
One of my most popular web articles during my time at Bon Appétit was a piece I wrote after our beloved patron saint Bourdain passed away called Please Don’t Drink When You’re Sad, so I’m taking my own advice.
And Adam Rapoport always reminded me (in a kind, constructive way) that my wine writing sucks when I’m sad. “You can just tell you’re not in it,” he said. “You’re a great writer because readers can feel you. They feel you at your best, and they can feel you at your… [pause, finding the right words] not best.”
Besides, I’ve only got
67 more words to go on that note.
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All collages © Marissa A. Ross. Do not reproduce without permission.