The danger of making it look easy

I don’t have a self-care budget, but I’ve definitely blown through it this month. Lately I will pay for anything that might help me get to the bottom of What Is Wrong With Me and How to Fix It. Sometimes that looks like signing up for rituals and courses involving self-reflection and intention-setting, others it means committing my New Year’s Day to a retreat where I’ll load up on sparkling water and Trader Joe’s fruit leather and cry in front of strangers.

One of the things I’ve gotten used to in the pandemic is that no one asks me about my life. This was true before 2020–I am a single woman and people generally assume that if you’re not publicly dating someone, you have nothing going on–but it is significantly truer now. Everyone is busier than ever, and is being abused by the institutions they’re employed by more than ever, plus every person I know seems to have had a top-10 worst life moment happen in the past couple of years. Early in the pandemic, we all talked about how every person was currently living through the caliber of crisis where, under normal circumstances, all of their people would rally around them. But because everyone needed support, no one was getting it, at least not fully. I haven’t heard anyone talk about that in a while.

Rarely this year has anyone asked how I’m doing, and for most of the year the answer has been: Really Bad. For close to a year now I’ve been dealing with a traumatizing situation that I’ve openly described as such, but I guess the fact that I appear to have deftly handled it undermines my words. Anyone who’s looked closely at my life this year would notice some serious unraveling at the seams; fortunately, almost no one has.

I feel self-absorbed for even noticing, because the truth of it is that, as in 2020 and 2021, everyone’s had a bad year. On the rare occasion that I acknowledge how difficult mine has been, I feel the need to immediately concede that the person I’m talking to has also had it rough and possibly rougher. I’m so unused to talking about myself and my life that doing so now makes me extremely self-conscious, like I’m a thief of airtime that belongs to someone else, someone whose life people care about. A couple of times this year I’ve considered quitting therapy, then realized that if I didn’t talk to my therapist each week, I would literally talk to no one.

A couple of months ago I saw someone I know slightly who, on paper, definitely had a worse year than I did. In an attempt to, I don’t know, find some common humanity or something, I mentioned that it had been a really hard year, the implied word being “collectively.” It wasn’t an attempt to minimize the other person’s challenges, or to start a contest over whose year had been worse, but that’s how the response felt. It was jarring to feel like I was supposed to agree that my life-threateningly bad year, the details of which I did not mention or allude to, was “not so bad” compared with someone else’s. I spent most of this year in a depth of despair that even I barely noticed; how can I expect other people to have picked up on it?

And the irony is, now people will ask. But if I’m talking about things, I’m fine. If I’m writing about things, I’m fine. If I’m posting about things, I’m fine. Anything that smacks of honesty and vulnerability in my public persona means I am fine. It’s handled, or it’s in the process of being handled. By me, generally alone. Which is a strange sort of comfort, really, as I’m the only person I’m certain will always be here with me. I almost feel inclined to build my walls higher, because despite the supposed shared experience of an awful few years, I find it hard to relate to anyone these days. I wonder if I’m jealous of people who can openly state that they’re in crisis, or even those who view every tiny setback as a crisis, a sign that God has it out for them, personally, when I think it’s pretty clear He has it out for all of us. I don’t feel sorry for myself; I’m aware that I do have it much, much easier than many people. But I do feel a bit sad.

Magical Nihilism #2 | Touch It Clean (Remix)

Magical Nihilism #2 | Touch It Clean (Remix)

I’ve decided to reproduce the issues of my newsletter here . This issue was initially sent to subscribers on September 7, 2021. Want to receive future issues in your inbox, before they land on the blog? Sign up here.

The subject of this email is a reference to a song I keep hearing on Instagram Reels, which I get because it’s super catchy and works well as the soundtrack to these videos where two conventionally hot women change outfits through the magic of video editing. But then occasionally it’s used in, like, a modesty fashion video and then it’s kind of jarring because the lyrics to the song are “She turned around and was tryin’ to put my dick in her mouth, I let her” and, like, maybe I’m missing something but if your idea of a summer outfit is a full-length sweatsuit it seems strange to set your video about said outfit to that particular song. 🤷🏻‍♀️

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I wonder what I’ll miss about you

I wonder what I’ll miss about you

I miss very specific things about the last man I loved. His long fingers, strumming a guitar in my kitchen. Both of us singing along to the classic-rock station while we drove through the hills of Central New York. The mixed-media art he made out of reconstructed musical instruments and hung in the woods for his friends’ annual music festival. The pure happiness on his face the time we met a giant Malamute named Gershwin on a snowy street in Hudson, New York. A Thanksgiving trip to Montreal where we ate foie gras poutine and watched Beverly Hills Cop and spent hours wandering Bozar. The way he’d randomly surprise me with bodega flowers or hide a copy of Carrie Brownstein’s book on my bookshelf for me to find. He knew me, in a way I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to know me—still don’t, except for maybe you.

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Élodie and Me

Élodie and Me

Élodie Clyde makes a perfect Negroni. On Sunday nights, she draws a lavender-scented bath, lights some candles, and soaks until the water begins to cool, rereading The Dud Avocado or The Golden Notebook. She always has champagne in the fridge, which she serves only when warranted, and in an assortment of mismatched antique teacups. Clad in a series of caftans, she hosts hours-long dinner parties that begin with elaborate spreads from Sahadi’s and end with a range of digestifs and board games. Her closet is filled with Ulla Johnson dresses and confusing t-shirts from Parisian concept stores. Élodie cares about other people’s feelings, but just enough; she never takes responsibility for them. Her life is big, but never suffocating.

Élodie Clyde doesn’t exist.

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Making a mess

Making a mess

Ten years ago, something bad happened and I lost most of my closest friendships. I’m forever shocked that I survived the year that followed, and as a person whose body typically reminds me of residual trauma before I bother to look at the calendar, I’ve been apprehensive about living through the anniversary of all of it.

Weirdly, though, thinking back on everything that happened in the context of what’s happening now, I see it as proof that I can live through most things. That year of my life was truly unlivable, and the one after it wasn’t much better. I hated myself and questioned all of my life choices—the bad ones, naturally, but also the ones that looked good on paper. I believed my life was irredeemably bad and, worse, that I deserved it. It was a long time before I recovered from this mindset in any meaningful way. For years, it dictated who I let into my life and how I let them treat me.

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In memory of my cousin, Matt Dore

In memory of my cousin, Matt Dore

My cousin Matt passed away unexpectedly this past week at the age of 26. I’m very much still processing this. The funeral was yesterday, and I was able to say a few words about who Matt was and what made my relationship with him special. Matt was a talented musician and writer who used art to process the things he saw happening in the world, as well as his own experiences. He was unlike anyone else I’ve ever met and likely will ever meet. It’s a devastating loss for our family, in particular Matt’s adoring parents Peg and Steve and his younger brother Michael. I feel fortunate to have had the chance to spend the past few days reflecting on the important role Matt played in my life, and how those of us who loved him can keep his legacy alive. The text below is the result of this reflection.

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