Quarantine Diary Day 80: Every Black Life Matters

Last week, like a lot of white people I know, I dipped my toes into the murky pools of clicktavism, posting content and engaging people on social media as a means of showing that I support the Black Lives Matter movement and am anti-racist. Back in my progressive Mormon days, the internet was the primary locus of my activism, at least in regards to the church. As a woman, I didn’t have any real power to change the church, and as a feminist living far outside the Mormon corridor, the internet was critical to finding like-minded people. After leaving the church and especially after getting sober, I largely stopped acting like an activist online. I didn’t know how to engage political causes on social media without triggering a cascade of character defects–self-centeredness, self-importance, insincerity, intolerance, and anger–so I stopped, stayed silent, and told myself I was protecting my sobriety. Of course, my silence was ego-driven, too, insofar as it shielded me from guilt and criticism over saying the wrong thing, and served to calcify my perfectionism apathy.

Last week, like a lot of white people I know, I cracked. That’s when I did all the things I’d sworn off in sobriety. I shared articles on Facebook and got all lit up when I saw my notification count go up. I talked about race and politics with family. I debated and disagreed. It didn’t feel like an emotional relapse. It felt like freedom from the bondage of self, that thing I plead for every morning with the third-step prayer. I didn’t get sober that I could languish in the land of self-help and healing and surface-level spirituality. I got sober so I could suit up and show up and live life on life’s terms.

Living life on life’s terms is a messy business it turns out. The demonstration in Evanston this weekend wasn’t messy–it was as impressively-organized an event as I’ve ever been too–but the world is. When I was in law school, I participated in a clinic that represented juveniles–kids–facing criminal charges. Our first client was young–fifteen I think, with a bag of skittles in his pocket–and facing charges of assault and attempted homicide of a police officer, though nobody was hurt. It was a hard case, with no witnesses except the police, and no evidence except the gun that the police claimed to have recovered while chasing our client down. The charges were trumped up and there was heaps of reasonable doubt but I remember hating that there had been a gun. It would just be so much easier if there wasn’t a gun. My client went on to get a sentence that would see him turning sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, and twenty-one in detention. I went on to graduate from law school and accept an offer from a prestigious law firm, where I learned that all the cases–civil, criminal, family, immigration–are hard. The easy cases settle out, often before lawyers even get involved.

The reason I want my cases to be easy is not because I can’t handle the legal issues. I like the challenge of a complicated set of facts and a nuanced body of law. I want my cases to be straightforward because it’s easier to defend people that are above reproach. I don’t mean it’s easier to sleep at night; I sleep fine. I mean, literally, it’s easier to tell stories about perfect people than it is to tell stories about people who are flawed. It’s harder to talk about people who are real.

But we are not saints. I’ve been writing publicly about my mess for a decade and it only makes people love me more. Maybe that’s because I write about it in a way that makes me seem reformed. I’m not. I scream at my daughter. I seethe with jealousy at my neighbors and friends. The other white people I got sober with have been liars, cheats, thieves, abusers, manipulators, and criminals. Rapists and racists. White people did those things and no one thinks we deserve to die. Our lives matter, flawed and fucked up as they are.

Black lives matter, too. I’m talking about real Black lives and Black lives as they really are. Black people deserve to be as complicated and complicit and bad as your favorite white anti-hero and still be fundamentally worthy, valued, and good. They deserve to be seen as mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, children, friends, neighbors, artists, leaders, business owners, enthusiasts, gardners, comedians, smart alecks, intellectuals, church goers, strivers, do-gooders, and change-makers. I believe, and some of the people who read by writing probably believe that Black people are children of God.

As the eminent Roxane Gay pleaded on Sunday, white people “demand perfection as the price for black existence while harboring no such standards for anyone else.”

Perfection doesn’t exist. Black people are flawed and fully human, just like you. Stop demanding perfection before they deserve your empathy and regard.

Quarantine Diary Day 66: Down In The Valley

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The first thing I wrote yesterday morning was “Today the rain is falling, as it did all night and as it promises to do all day.” The rain did come down all day yesterday, in buckets, dumping all over everything. I didn’t mind it so much in the morning, waking up to the sound of it splattering against my bedroom window, feeling safe from the gray of it around the kitchen table with my family and a stack of waffles and the crossword. I got out once for a walk during a lull in the early afternoon, but I stayed out too long and came back drenched. “Why did you go so far?” my husband asked? “I read you the minutecast.” It’s true, he did tell me that the rain would be back in precisely twenty-three minutes, and I’d chirped, “Perfect!” like that was all I needed. It’s true, too, that twenty-three minutes is enough time for a walk. But what’s truer than true is that I needed more time. I wanted to stay out longer, walk farther, and feel freer, and I thought that the wanting and the acting on the waniting would be enough to hold the rain at bay until I made it back home. It wasn’t, and I got wet. It was a warm rain, though, and I arrived home to a warm home and dry clothes and my family already snuggled on the couch waiting for me with snack bowls and blankets and Toy Story all cued up. These were the high points of a hilly day.

Down in the valleys, I did battle with my character defects. In a low moment, I gave voice to my shrieking insecurity in the presence of my daughter and then desperately tried to claw it back, because there’s nothing I want more than for her baggage to be all her own. In another low moment, I gave airtime to my selfishness, begging everybody to just be quiet so that I could sit on the couch for an hour and read. The things I do in the valleys make me feel like a bad mom, and that’s a feeling that I drag with me all day. It doesn’t matter how high I get. I could be walking on clouds and I’d still hate the mom from down the hill.

Bedtime rolled around and I cracked. I cried and cried, buckets dumping all over everything. I saw my daughter’s lower lip shake because there’s nothing sadder than watching mama cry, and then I cried some more because there’s nothing sadder than watching your kid watching her mama cry. I pulled myself together, pulled her into my lap, and rubbed her arms and told what I’ve told her hundreds of times, “It’s going to be okay. Everything’s going to be okay.” When it felt like she might be starting to believe me, I asked her what she wanted for a bedtime story, and she told me that tonight she would read to me. We settled on the floor, her with Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in her lap, and me curled up on my side, arms wrapped around myself, willing myself to believe the promises I keep making.

Quiet

It’s been quiet around here, no?

I started this secret blog because I had an ocean of stories I needed to tell, a loud head I needed to quiet, and, honestly, a violent interior life I needed to quell. I had nobody to talk to and no way to make sense of what was happening in my life or my mind except to write it out. I expected this to become a diary of my recovery, something I would be able to look back to and track where I was at on Day -29, Day 90, Day 180, and so on, never mind that I didn’t have a clue about the concept of “recovery,” and certainly didn’t think it was something I qualified for, or was capable of, or deserved. Today is Day 704 without a drink or a mood or mind altering drug. I’ve had so much to say this last one year eleven months and four days. I had so much to say in the ten, twenty, thirty years that led to my last Day 1. I still have so much to say. And yet, this place has been quiet.

I want to account for my silence. Not because I need to. I know I don’t owe the seven readers of my anonymous blog anything. I know even if I had a lot more readers, I wouldn’t owe them an explanation as to why the record of my emotional life on the internet is not as meticulous as it could be. The truth is, I want to write about about my silence because it is interesting to me that somebody as verbose and teeming with creative energy and intellectually excited by and curious about the radical spiritual journey I’ve been on these last few years as I am would consciously avoid the blog she set up for the express purpose of channeling that excess energy and exploring those wild ideas. I mean, something’s got to be going on there, right?

There are two basic reasons for my absence. The first one is pretty straightforward.

I started the blog because I thought I needed it and I did need it, until I didn’t. I posted my last big milestone post when I was six months sober. Then I almost relapsed and got my ass into AA. And you guys, AA meetings don’t consist solely of coffee and donuts and folding chairs. There are actual people there, and they are nice. Also, as it turns out, if dredging up your past and regaling a crowd with drunkalogues and agonizing over your relationships with everything from booze to food to your mom to yourself to your obnoxiously well-dressed co-worker is your thing, AA is, like the perfect place to do that. I occasionally see advice to newcomers along the lines of, “Don’t worry, you don’t have to talk, just listen,” but after over a lifetime of thinking that I was the only person in the world who walked around feeling like a stranger in my own life, that nobody enjoyed that first drink, the one that turned the lights on, quite as much as I did, that I alone struggled with the apparent inability to drink like a grown up, I was desperate to talk. I used up every bit of the three minutes or so I got to talk at meetings. It was enough just to unload on kind-eyed strangers, and it was like Christmas morning when I saw women nodding when I talked about trying to figure out how to nurse my baby after I’d had to much to drink (forced to choose, literally, between feeding my addiction and feeding my child) because they got it. Forget about making a roomful of people laugh with a story about my unsuccessful suicide attempt; that was like gold, because they understood that it was tragic and funny. In AA I found a place to excavate my past, to shine a light on my drinking behaviors, on all that shamed me, really, and, as a result, to arrive at the conclusion that, yes, I really did have a problem with alcohol and, yes, I really did need to quit and, yes, I might actually be able to quit and not be too mad about it, if I just did the things that the darkly funny people with the kind eyes did. Once I had those things, I didn’t need to muddle my way to sobriety via a blank page and an internet connection.

That’s not the whole story, though. I may not need writing the way I used to, but I miss it. I want to tell these stories, to layer my experiences and memories and ideas together with words and, in so doing, make them into something more than what they were. What I really want is to give them to somebody who might need them, but I’ll settle for somebody who might find them halfway interesting. So why do I go months without writing anything longer than an Instagram caption?

The answer is that writing here doesn’t feel good. Or, more accurately, it doesn’t feel right. I certainly try to write. I’ll open up the computer, spool out a few lines, and spin out, triggered. Writing about my drinking days, more often than not, makes me want to drink. Writing about drugs makes me to get high. They don’t scrape out your taste buds when you get sober; I will always like these things. Or, I’ll labor over a piece for days, or weeks, and hit publish, only to be seized with anxiety. Should I share it with my online recovery community? With my friends? With my family? If no one is reading my work, why am I even writing?

That this is the reaction I have to my own writing, to the act of writing, baffles me. I see so many people navigating the waters of recovery by writing about it. Writing seems to bring them a measure of relief, even freedom. This is not my experience. Why not? I see that these people call themselves truth tellers and I worry. Do I not tell the truth when I write? Is that why it makes me anxious? I see these people using their platforms to carry a message of hope to others suffering in addiction. Are my reasons for writing too selfish? Is that why writing publicly fills me up with guilt? Or maybe the guilt comes from the fact that anonymity is part of twelve-step philosophy. I used to be comfortable being out-of-step but lately I’ve found more peace falling in line.

Another theory is that a lot of the sober writers I read lost their voices in addiction, or never knew the joy of speaking freely in the first place. Not me. I’ve been speaking my truth for years. Not the whole truth, and certainly not to the degree I do now, but I have been writing online about uncomfortable topics in one form or another for years, from the Xanga and Blogspot accounts where I explored my nascent sexuality to the WordPress site where I documented my feminist awakening and ensuing critiques of the Mormon church. While I’d be happy if the drivel I wrote in my angsty teenage years never saw the light of day, I’m pretty proud of the writing I did about gender and marriage and religion and identity over last ten years or so. So much so that it pains me to admit that much of that writing came from the same place as my drinking.

Take this clever feminist critique and see how smart I am.

Peruse this painful account of sexual harassment and see how hard I’ve had it.

Absorb this liberal manifesto and see how progressive I am.

Read this funny account of a road trip with my husband who is not Mormon and see how happy we are.

Listen to me delineate the travails of breastfeeding and see that I am a good mom.

Hear my plea to the Mormon church to change–to acknowledge LGBTQ relationships, to person women–and change your mind about everything you’ve ever believed.

My writing was an exercise in character defects: grandiosity; self-loathing; arrogance; self-pity; anger; fear; pride; intolerance–the list goes on and on.

And here’s the rub. My writing, as often as not, is still colored by, maybe even rooted in, these same defects.

Take this critique of a hackneyed recovery aphorism and see how smart I am.

Read this alcoholic’s experience of drinking culture and change your views on booze.

Parse this painful account of one of my many bottoms and see how hard I’ve had it.

Enjoy this tale of triumph over drugs and alcohol and religious dogma and see how strong I am.

Hear my plea to lookatme lookatme lookatme and know I am special, or least a damn good writer.

I write because I can’t not, because it is how I understand my place in the world, but I can’t stop myself from using my writing to seek validation, to control how people see me, to make myself into somebody I can like myself.

It’s all futile.

Writing like this won’t give me what I need and it won’t feel good in the end but it still gives me something so I guess I’ll see you here until something changes.