Abigail Barnette's Blog, page 48

The Queerness of Wonder Woman

Spoilers for Wonder Woman. Come back and read this after you’ve seen it. And definitely, go see it.

Though I tried to avoid spoilers for Wonder Woman before I had a chance to see it yesterday, there was one that could not be avoided in queer circles: that Diana, Princess of Themyscira, stated unequivocally that men weren’t necessary for sexual pleasure. It was a line that got big laughs from the women in the audience and nervous chuckles from the men; Steve Rose, a critic for The Guardian expressed confusion over the moment.

We spend thirty or so minutes on Diana’s mystical island home, watching muscular woman with razor-sharp cheekbones hurling weapons at each other. The scenes are shot with what could only be described as the queer female gaze: the leather armor, practical hairstyles, big ass swords and toned thighs that could pop a watermelon are not there to turn men on. At the screening I attended with my daughter, a man behind me whispered loudly to his companion, “Did they have to make them so dykey?”

Yes, good sir. Yes, they did.

But, as some critics were quick to point out, Gal Gadot’s Diana still gets down with Chris Pine. A man! So much for feminism, right?

Slate’s Christina Cauterucci writes in her review, “I Wish Wonder Woman Were As Feminist As It Thinks It Is”:

“The love story in Wonder Woman also seems positioned as a ‘no homo’ response to the heroine’s inherently queer backstory: Diana was raised on a hidden island that contains only women, some of them fairly jacked and butch-of-center. […] Diana is so clueless about men, human activity, and the basic concepts of manipulation and evil—think mute air-breathing Ariel in The Little Mermaid, if she could incapacitate an entire village of German sharpshooters—that her capacity for consent is somewhat blurry. She can’t even understand why Trevor thinks it would be improper for them to sleep in the same bed when they’ve just met. Diana’s naïveté and innocence are crucial to the film’s moral thrust, but they cast her sexual relationship in a shiftier light.”

Cauterucci isn’t the only critic who’s made this observation, but I respectfully disagree. While it would have been refreshing to see a Wonder Woman without a romantic subplot, its inclusion doesn’t erase or devalue Diana’s queerness. It simply means that she’s, wait for it…not attracted to one gender. We already knew that Wonder Woman was canonically bisexual (maybe she’s pansexual; the scope of her attraction is never defined, probably because it’s a movie about war and explosions and not all the steamy, acrobatic Amazon sex going on in Themyscira. Fingers crossed for the sequel).

Neither do I agree that Wonder Woman has a consent issue; Diana’s confusion over the importance of marriage and sleeping arrangements doesn’t rise from some Brooke-Sheilds-in-The-Blue-Lagoon sexual innocence, but seeming impatience at how ridiculous the social rules are in the world beyond Themyscira. By all accounts, Diana has had more sexual education than Steve; the Amazons apparently have a twelve-volume encyclopedia on the subject that she has studied extensively. Not only can Diana consent, but I imagine she must have had to give Steve some on-the-job training. The crucial naïveté Cauterucci describes extends to senseless violence against innocents, not Diana’s own sexuality. The only person who assumes otherwise is Steve, and Diana corrects that assumption matter-of-factly before it can take root in the narrative.

I won’t argue that Wonder Woman is a masterpiece of feminism that lifts up and represents every woman in the world. No movie, TV show, or book can possibly do that, as our stories and experiences are vast and varied. There were many missteps the movie made, from the minuscule parts given to black women and the absence of any other women of color from speaking roles, to the fact that, aside from Gadot and Lucy Davis’s dowdy but spunky Etta, once we leave Themyscira the movie turns into a total dude show. Even Dr. Poison, set up in the script to be the Big Bad, got shoved aside for Remus Lupin. I understand the feminist critics who say they didn’t dig the love story. But to argue that a canonically bisexual heroine is less queer because she has sex with a man off-screen, and to include this as a reason that the movie isn’t “as feminist as it thinks it is,” inadvertently suggests that biphobia and panphobia are somehow progressive.

I don’t excuse all the choices made by the filmmakers or celebrate Wonder Woman as a feminist master stroke in itself, but there’s no denying that its success has opened doors in Hollywood that were previously barred not only for female creators but female audiences, especially queer female audiences. Of course, it was still a movie in which a queer person’s love interest dies, though it was refreshing to see a straight, cis man fridged for a woman’s emotional motivation this time. I thoroughly look forward to the sequel, and maybe an ass-kicking girlfriend for Diana…who doesn’t die.

The Big Damn Writer Advice Column

It’s that time of the week (or two weeks later than that time because I just plum forgot this post twice in a row) when I answer your anonymous questions about writing and all that stuff connected to it. Every Thursday, I’ll be answering two questions from the Big Damn Writer Question Box.

Q: How many beta readers do you use, on average?

A: Unless a project has something in it that I feel requires an expert touch or I’m feeling insecure about an element I don’t think is working, I generally don’t employ betas. The last time I had someone beta something it was the scenes that took place in the Bahamas for Second Chance because I wanted to make sure the dialect was right. Usually, I write the book and do a second draft, then send it to my editor. I do the edits she asked for, and she reads it again and gives me more edits. I do those edits and send the book to a second editor, who proofs the copy. Then it comes back to me and I do the proofs. Then I set it aside for a couple of days, read it again to try to catch any other mistakes. Then I publish it and usually within one or two hours of it going live, seven or eight people email me to tell me about typos and I go and cry under my desk.

 

Q: I know through previous blog posts that you have had difficulties with your writing/book group in the past. Even with your previous negative experiences, do you think that a writing group is generally beneficial? What is the most easy way to start a writing group?

A: Just to clarify here, I didn’t have difficulties with my writing group so much as one person became difficult after we all got published. And even then, her writing advice was solid. Without that group, I would have never been published; I would have either not finished my book, or finished it and put it in a drawer somewhere. So I definitely recommend a group.

But join a good one. Once, someone invited me to their writing group. All the writers sat around talking about their own writing, not in a “can you help me brainstorm this,” or “if my protagonist does this, is he redeemable,” kind of way that’s productive. It was literally just two hours of these people talking about how serious and important their writing is, how much more literary and deep than everyone else’s, and how they were unappreciated geniuses. One of them asked me if I was published, then went on a five-minute rant about how no one who’s a true writer ends up published, as publishing only wants mediocre material because the average reader can’t handle anything over a third-grade reading level. Do not, I repeat, do not join a group like this.

As for how to start a group…man, I’m way too socially awkward to answer that question effectively. I guess the easiest way to start a writing group is to do it with people you like a level beyond writing, so you know you click. If you’ve got friends who are interested in writing, form up with them. Online friends? Set up a weekly Skype date or something. Anything to get together with other writers. Check out your local library to see if any groups meet there that are open to people to join.

Writing groups aren’t essential to success, but they really do help you stick to your goals and you all end up teaching each other stuff.

 

Bonus Question: If I bought you a book I think you’d be great at snarking at would you?

A: I’m not snarking books right now at the moment. Recent mental health challenges have made keeping up with the blog difficult enough, so starting a new project would be setting myself up for stress and failure. But thank you so much for the offer! I love how much you guys love snark!

 

Wanna see your questions get answered (or just wanna air a grievance?) Put it in the box!

True Blood FINE I’LL BUY A NEW HEADSET! -day

I’m being punished by the gods. I ordered a new headset off Amazon. It should be here by the end of the week. There will be True Blood after that. I will not let this hourly escape die. But I will be extremely snarky when we watch the next episode because at that point it will have been my third time recording it.

If You Want To Become An Acolyte Of Ursinetha, Goddess-Hunter And Queen Of Skulls, Eat The Still Beating Heart Of A Bear Every Day Or Quit Now

Tomorrow, I will sit down and spend hours writing my current work in progress. I’m not sure right now if it’s going to be a hit, if my readers will love it or loathe it, or if it’s the best thing I’ve ever written. I don’t know if it will be a nail in the coffin of my writing career or if it will shoot me to the very heights of critical acclaim.

What I do know is that day, that very day, one thousand other people will also be writing their books. In order to make sure mine stands out from the crowd, my mind must be clear so I can write better than them. So, forgive me–I have to kill a bear.

Look, I’m not going to mince words here: Of the thousand other writers, 800 won’t have been blessed by Ursinetha, Goddess-Hunter and Queen of Skulls (may she reign in blood). Ursinetha love them, Ursinetha, be with them, Ursinetha, show them the mercy of a quick death beneath your dripping claws, they just are not as talented and dedicated to her glorious worship as I am. And that’s why they’re not going to be able to write a book. Because the Forest Spirits are in them, and once they’re in there, there’s no getting the out. Not without the appropriate sacrifices. For that same reason, I will never know a night’s sleep undisturbed by vivid memories of tearing hide and the steaming, fetid stench of an animal already decaying between my frenzied jaws, not matter how much I may want to.

So, that only leaves 200 other writers to compete with me. Sure, they may be smarter or more photogenic. They may have never taken the life of a man dressed as a bear in ceremonial combat. If they were writing this piece instead of me, you would like it a lot more, because it wouldn’t have so many parts about mysterious bear cults. They probably don’t have mystic runes tattooed on their back that ward them from the attacks of the Wolf Mages. You wouldn’t be embarrassed to bring them to parties.

I will conquer them all, however, and I will do it because I am willing to do what it takes to please the Forest Gods.

I will eat the still beating heart of a bear, and they will not.

 

The two most important tools at your disposal as a writer are your natural love of the written word and the dedication required to wrestle, subdue, and kill a bear. Somewhere along the line, all those people competing with me just lose their drive. I’m in too deep to stop now. They might lack the faith necessary to put their lives on the line for Ursinetha’s blessing, but I don’t. Maybe they’ll make some new friends; mine are all dead now, perished between the crushing teeth of an angry bear or smote to ashes by a Wolf Mage. Their books will wither like so much bear meat left to rot in the undergrowth.

I know about bear meat. And books. And I know that without one, the other cannot survive.

I get it. You’re working hard on your book, doing your thing day in and day out until your brain gets tired and you think, “Man, I have to quit before I burn out.” Maybe you start taking a weekend off here and there. And that’s when the call of the wilderness touches you, draws you from your computer and into the night. You strip naked, you run on all fours. When you wake up, you don’t know where you are, but the rows of sturdy RVs and screaming campers give you an indication. Somehow, you’ve wound up in the KOA, wrapped in a black bear’s hide. And there’s blood. Oh god, there’s so much blood. But you didn’t finish the ritual.

I’m not a quitter. I don’t quit. When I start a mystical journey to conquer the raging forest spirits that haunt my dreams, I finish. So, let me give you some advice in your own quest.

The most important thing is to eat the heart.

If you don’t have the will to bring that steaming, still pumping organ to your lips, you are in the wrong business. Once you’ve broken the covenant with Ursinetha, she will offer you no protection. You have to make daily bear sacrifices a part of your routine. It has to become second nature, like making coffee or burning the appropriate herbs at a crossroads. It’s not a triumph of the muse. There’s nothing noble or dramatic about it. You do it because you have to, and because the moon has reached the zenith of its darkness. If you’re having to force yourself to take that first bite, you’re doing something wrong. Ever consider just not being a writer? We have plenty of those. Ones who don’t balk at consuming a bear’s heart.

Easy enough, right? Here’s how you do it: you murder a bear every day. Obviously, I don’t mean every day. Words don’t magically start meaning the things everyone understands them to mean just because I’m a writer telling you to murder a bear every day. Not knowing what words mean is an integral part of authorship. What I meant was: devour the heart of a bear every day.

The most difficult part of an author’s life isn’t the hours spent meticulously plotting a story or improving their craft, but their ability to constantly be thinking about ways to please Ursinetha and prove your devotion to her coven. You have to get into the mind of the bear. You have to make yourself become the bear. It will help you find the bear you’re meant to kill, until it becomes second nature to you. But if you stop, if you don’t do this every day (despite the fact that I’ve already said “Obviously, I don’t mean every day.”) eventually, you won’t remember how to take a life at all. Then you’ll have to go back to the Cave Of Waking Dreams and start your training all over!

The sad reality is that in the end, no matter how many hearts you’ve sacrificed to Ursinetha in shared feast, you may never fully defeat the Forest Spirits. You may be eaten by a bear. But you’ll never know what you can do until you’re free from the call of the still woodland night. So you get out there, and YOU EAT THE GODDAMNED BEAR HEART.

This piece was inspired by an insipid and self-congratulatory piece of nonsense by Pulitzer Prize winning critic Stephen Hunter, titled, “If You Want to Write a Book, Write Every Day or Quit Now” for The Daily Beast. It is only slightly more nonsensical than the above satire.

Do not fret over the advice Hunter dispensed in his piece. You can finish a book without writing every day. Almost every writer does. And other writers aren’t your competition (though they’ve apparently been unknowingly competing with Mr. Hunter for years). You do you, and fuck anyone who tells you that you should quit. Especially if they’ve just admitted to wanting you to fail in the very essay in which they claim to want to help you succeed.

 

The Big Damn Writer Advice Column

It’s that time of the week (or two weeks later than that time because I just plum forgot this post twice in a row) when I answer your anonymous questions about writing and all that stuff connected to it. Every Thursday, I’ll be answering two questions from the Big Damn Writer Question Box.

Q: How big of a readership/ built in audience do I need before submitting my first novel to a publisher? If I don’t have an established brand with a million followers on twitter, will publishers or even agents even consider me? I am not very active on social media and while I am trying to submit other pieces of writing to online publications, I don’t have much of a following.

A: Short answer: You don’t have to have a built-in audience or a brand or a million followers to be considered by a publisher or an agent, but having some sort of presence can sometimes give you a leg up. Note: I said “can” not “definitely will”.

When I first got published, there was no such thing as “social media.” I had a LiveJournal and AOL Instant Messenger and that was it. Nowadays, we expect first-time authors to not only produce a good book, but to do all their own marketing ahead of time. That seems really unfair. On the other hand, it’s also an opportunity: you can build your audience before there’s even anything for them to consume. That gives you an incredible leg up when the book does come out. And the bonus is, you can make it so editors and agents actually know that you’re alive!

So, you’re not very active on social media. The good news is, you don’t have to be. Some of us love talking to people all day every day (provided it’s not face-to-face interaction or on the telephone, in which case we would just take a hard pass and become a hermit living in a cave on some a-hole aristocrat’s sprawling manor), but that’s not for everyone. What you want to do is pick a form of social media you do like. Is Instagram your thing? Twitter? Facebook? Cool. Pick one and go with it. Then start checking out hashtags for writing on that platform (or groups, if it’s Facebook). Start participating. Follow authors you think are cool, authors you’ve read, authors you want to read, authors who aren’t even in your genre, just anyone you think is pretty neat. Remember, this is social media, not networking media. You’re there to make connections with people, but not just so you can get something. If you see a bunch of writers participating in a monthly hashtag challenge on Instagram, join in and follow people! If you see people in a Twitter chat, hang out, read stuff, chat with people. If you’re on Facebook, do whatever the hell it is people do on Facebook. I don’t understand it. The point is, engage with other writers on the subject of writing. Editors and agents follow those chats, too. You might even make friends with some of them. And then, when it comes time to submit your books, they might go, “Oh, yeah, I remember them from Twitter.” Or what have you.

Isabelle Drake is basically the author queen of Instagram. In a recent workshop she gave to my writers’ group, she advised that rather than spread yourself reluctantly across all social media platforms, you should figure out which ones you actually like using and ditch the rest. She argued that a strong presence on one platform looks better than half-assing every platform. That’s really good advice.

At the end of the day, though, an editor or agent isn’t signing you because you have an awesome social media platform. If they’re looking for your book and your book finds its way to them, they probably aren’t going to go, “Gosh, this is everything I want right now, but they don’t have have a lot of Twitter followers, so I’ll just throw it it in the trash.” That’s probably not someone you’re going to want to work with, anyway. So, don’t let a lack of Instagram followers stop you from submitting, and ignore any advice that insists you must have at least x many followers before a publisher will look at your submission.

 

Q: One of the most useful things I learned from your recaps was how (and not!) to end chapters and sections. In your own writing, how do you decide where to end sections and how to create hooks?

A: That’s a good question. I would love to know the answer, myself. I can break one down for you, but I’m not sure I can teach what’s really just something I feel after years of consuming media. It’s almost like I instinctively know where the commercial breaks are. Basically, I’ve outlined every scene in the book already once I’m writing it, so I know that when a scene has achieved a certain goal, I can stop at any time. For example, right now I’m writing

Basically, I’ve outlined every scene in the book already once I’m writing it, so I know that when a scene has achieved a certain goal, I can stop at any time and probably should stop pretty quickly, before I’m just writing words that go nowhere. For example, right now I’m writing The Sister. I knew there was going to be a scene where El-Mudad came for a visit, and he and Sophie and Neil would discuss their relationship, and eventually, it would lead into a sex scene. Well, once they have their relationship discussion, I can’t just put “SCENE OVER TURN PAGE,” right? (PS: It’s unfair that I can’t just do that.) What I did instead was have Sophie ruminate on a revelation that came from that discussion:

On the other hand, Neil and I had sort of expected to have that life together. He was fifty-three now. He couldn’t exactly wait for me to reach retirement age to travel the world. And if we waited for Olivia to grow up, he would be seventy before we really got to do anything.

My heart fell. Was this what people meant when they said life happened when you were busy making other plans? Because that sucked.

Then tied it in with some dialogue (which attaches to dialogue that I just haven’t pasted here, I promise):

“We might go together,” El-Mudad suggested. “I have a beautiful house there, and somehow I never quite make it for visits.”

“Like our wasted apartment in Venice,” I joked. I still had never been.

“I think we should sell it. Make some new memories somewhere else,” Neil said with forced cheerfulness. He’d bought the apartment for his ex wife and apparently fought for it out of sheer spite. I couldn’t blame him for not weekending there.

“As long as I get to go to Venice at least once.” I wouldn’t bend on that stipulation. But my tone grew serious. “It’s all well and good to talk about running around all over the world, but it’s not practical. I’ve got the magazine, we’ve got Olivia–”

“But you don’t have them tonight,” El-Mudad said with an arched brow.

“It’s not like we can run away to France tonight,” I reminded him.

And then ended by giving the reader an idea of what to expect next. In this case, the big giant sex scene that will comprise the next chapter:

Neil gave a dark laugh, his eyes practically glittering with lascivious intent. “Oh, can’t we?”

That works as a hook (as least as far as I’m concerned; your mileage may vary) because the reader is aware that Neil and Sophie have a Versailles-inspired sex dungeon, but also because this is a story about a billionaire with his own private jet. They very well could “run away to France tonight.” So you have to turn the page to get to either a) the hot sex you’ve been waiting for, or b) find out if they actually take a trip to France.

It doesn’t have to be something big and dramatic. I just view section breaks as the commercial break in the middle of the episode (you know you’re going to want to continue), and chapter breaks as the final scene of the episode (you know whether or not you’re tuning in next week).

 

Bonus Question: More of a blog question but: are you going to start recapping your own book like you said you might? You mentioned you had some books from early on in your career with problematic content ripe for snarling on.

A: I have been advised that openly mocking content I created that someone else is trying to sell might not be in the spirit of the contract I signed in order to receive money for said content. Oops.

 

Wanna see your questions get answered (or just wanna air a grievance?) Put it in the box!

True Blood Next Tuesday

Hey there! Between family vacation and rehearsals for Annie, I mistakenly didn’t leave time to record True Blood this week. I’ll do two next week.

True Blood Wednesday S04E04 “I’m Alive And On Fire” and S04E05 “Me And The Devil”

That second episode is about my headset and my internet connection. But at long last, I’m back! I’ve used a different set up, so there will probably be more ambient noise. Just consider that a bonus.

Here’s the file for episode 4. Content warnings for rape, incest, and abuse. This show is getting dark. Also, the sound quality might suck because I was recording with the wrong mic. So there will probably be ambient noise that wouldn’t normally be there.

Here’s the file for episode 5. Content warning for the aftermath of all that other shit.

I so needed a night of absolutely incomprehensible vampire nonsense. Glad we’re back on track!

State Of The Trout: “Just Thinkin’ About Tomorrow”

Hey there, everybody! First of all, the biggest and most heartfelt thank you to everyone who left comments or contacted me via email or social media after my recent post about my mental health. I don’t respond to stuff like 97.4% of the time because I’m seriously overwhelmed by the idea of anyone caring about me, but know that I appreciate you guys and the little community we’ve made here. And I’m on the upswing again. I hope it’s catching, and you all can be, as well.

Second, if you follow me on social media, you know that last week, my daughter and I had a great time auditioning for Annie at Center Stage Theater in Comstock, MI. I’m pleased to report that both of us are in the show! My daughter is in the orphan chorus, and while I got called back for Miss Hannigan, I ultimately didn’t get the part and am playing…

Sophie.

I thought you guys would all get a kick out of that. I’m playing a character named Sophie.

So, if you’re in the southwest Michigan area in July-ish, come see us singing and dancing (the latter of which is a lot harder to do than I remember, but I also weighed approximately one hundred pounds less the last time I had to do it). I’ll put the performance dates, times, and ticket buy links on the “Meet Me!” page as we get closer.

When I was younger, I thought my destiny was to be a singer/actress who dazzled on the Broadway stage. Even though that never came to be, I’m psyched to be involved in community theater again, and with my daughter, who’s doing her first show the same place I did mine way back in 1996! Expect to see some musical theater related posts in the next few weeks.

Onto other news, I think I figured out what was wong with my headset, so True Blood Tuesday will be back this week with a double installment.

That’s all the news that’s fit to post. Have a Troutstanding Monday!

 

Dear MAGA: We’re Not Your Weapon

I’ve largely kept my mouth shut about Stephen Colbert’s remark about Trump’s mouth being Putin’s dick holster. Mostly because I expect allies to fuck up every so often. And I say that without malice; even with the best of intentions, we all fuck up sometimes over something. It happens. I do it literally all the time. But I just don’t have the energy to be outraged at Colbert. I’ve learned the limits of my stamina since November, and every day those limits are tested again and again. I’m not going to ride into the fire to defend Colbert, and I’m pretty pissed that the left is now embracing “free speech” as a defense against making a homophobic joke just because it’s one of ours who’s come under fire. But no, I can’t be shocked and furious over the joke itself. I just don’t have it in me.

Good thing the conservatives are there to be outraged for me! They want Colbert fired for his intolerance. They want him investigated. They want his show fined. They want us to boycott CBS. They want justice for the gays because this kind of homophobia will not stand!

So, I have a question for the MAGA crowd: Just how fucking stupid do you think we are?

You supported a candidate who endorses electrocuting queer kids in order to fix them. You don’t get to be mad about a homophobic joke.

You believed that your precious marital vows would be sullied if your gay neighbors tied the knot. You don’t get to be mad about a homophobic joke.

You’re cheering whenever some white trash wedding planner in Christislordsville, India won’t work with a gay couple.

You’re silent about the mass genocide being committed against gay and bisexual men in Chechnya, because you’re secretly cheering it on and fantasizing about the day it will happen here.

You don’t get to be mad about a homophobic joke.

You don’t care about us. You want us dead. Your churches preach love for your fellow man, so long as that man is straight. You try to take our children from our homes. You drive us out of your communities. Some of you murder us or rape us to teach us a lesson. You shun your own children, send them to abusive “therapy,” turn them onto the streets, then accuse us of being sexual predators when we take them in.

You’ve called us fags, dykes, and queers so often that we’ve had to wrench those words away from you. “Well, I’ve never used those words!” you insist. Yes, you have. You have used those words as slurs, you have made homophobic jokes that were a thousand times crueler than anything Colbert said on his show. Hatred for us has flowed over your lips, through your keyboards like flash floods of human waste.

“But if Hannity said–” Hannity has said worse.

“But if that was on Fox News–” Fox News has said worse.

“Why is it okay if–” It’s not okay. It’s never okay to imply that same-gender relations are degrading.

It’s those questions that give you away. You want to know why you can’t be openly homophobic in the most graphic language possible without anyone objecting to it. You’re fighting for the right to say whatever you want about us without consequence. You’re telling us that if we’re not joining you in your transparently disingenuous social conscientiousness, we have to lie down and let you stomp over our rights, our liberty, our lives until there’s nothing left of us. You don’t want Stephen Colbert fired. You want us to give you permission to dehumanize and destroy us.

Should Colbert have said what he said? No. It was tasteless and contributed to that deep-seated fear of sexual intimacy between partners of the same gender. But is it as damaging as anything your side has done? Is it as damaging as the harm you’re all so proud of causing?

Now you want to use us as a weapon against a man who has offended your tangerine demigod? No. No, we are not here for you. We see you working every single day to destroy us, and we see what you’re really mad about: someone implied that your object of mindless adoration could ever possibly be like us. That offends you more than Colbert’s homophobic statement or “profanity” ever could.

I won’t call this virtue signaling, because the term is asinine and you can’t virtue signal if you have no virtues, anyway. Stow your faux outrage, keep your hands off of us.

Our lives are not for you. We don’t want your fake concern.

We are not your weapon.

Normal

Warning: This is a post about my experience of mental illness. There will be references to self-harm and suicide. This is my experience, and should not be taken as a comment on or explanation of anyone else’s.

With every high comes a low.

For a few precious days, I felt almost normal. It came to me in flashes: realizing that I’d made a phone call. Finding myself in public. Keeping promises I’d made and making new ones. Yes, I’ll be there. I’d love to come. There was even an instant, riding in the passenger seat of the car, my forehead leaned against the window, that I saw the headlights of cars on a perpendicular road and thought, where are they going?

I never have thoughts like that anymore. I don’t wonder. Productive wonder is a kind of optimism that my brain chemistry has killed. On a bad day, I would wonder if those cars were racing to the hospital, driving home from a breakup, speeding toward the life-changing moment of finding a loved one hanging in the garage. But in those precious few seconds, I remembered what it was like when I could daydream without some morose “What if?” lurking in my mind.

I tried to hold onto it. I hadn’t felt that way since I was a teenager, riding in the backseat of my mom’s car, listening to R.E.M. on my headphones and letting my mind wander. That was before my brain betrayed me, before a still-changing body took a wrong turn somewhere and made too much of one thing and not enough of others. I’m not sure how brain chemistry works. That’s my only understanding of it.

I was normal, and then I was not.

Now, twenty or so years on, I’m still lying to myself. Every time the poisonous tendrils of mental illness recede, I stupidly let myself think, this is it. You’re free for good this time. And that makes the crash harder.

It came in the middle of the day. A late dose, a change in routine, that’s all it took. What’s wrong with me? Other people can handle a badly timed phone call. Other people can do two simple tasks at once. Other people are better. Worth more.

Normal.

Normal people, better people, don’t crumple over an outing they hadn’t planned for. Normal people don’t plunge from happily drinking their coffee and mindlessly enjoying TV to hiding in bed, comforter pulled over their head, imagining all the ways children are abused every day and sobbing because there’s no way to stop it. Normal people don’t see a constant filmstrip of horrible what-ifs that they can’t turn off even when it leaves them incapable of focusing on anything else. What if I get cancer? What if my children see me die? What if I do die, and years from now they don’t remember my face? All of these on an endless loop, as though they’re fated to happen, they’re happening, they’ve already happened.

I want to be normal.

Instead, I stand in front of the stove, cooking dinner, telling myself I should put my hand in the boiling water. At the time, it will seem perfectly rational. Later, I think about that impulse, how it almost overwhelmed me, and I’m horrified. Ashamed. A normal person wouldn’t try to convince herself to severely scald her own hand. What if I had done it? Why did I let myself think it? Why now?

I woke up that morning normal.

I went to bed crazy.

Even though I know that none of this is my fault, I blame myself because the sickness in my brain tells me to. That sickness shadows me every day, seizes my mind with evil and obsessive thoughts I can’t turn off. It hurts my body, sending false alarms of danger until my chest hurts and I can’t breathe. When I remember that there are times that it’s not like this, I crumble. But I would never give up those “normal” moments, even the fleeting ones. Because they keep me from believing that this is normal. They set boundaries that remind me of the villain that lurks in all the wrinkles of my diseased brain. Sometimes they feel mean, like teasing glimpses of a life I could have if I weren’t so fragile. Other times, like now, they are triumphant. Every time I remember that I’m mentally ill and not a failure, not a freak, I win a small battle over the villain in my mind. I remember that underneath, I can be normal. But I still have to be here, I have to be present, to be normal.

I will stay, until the next normal, and the one after that.