#4: she said it was for anxious people only
a red rain-jacket, sally rooney (again), still bipolar, & looking for validation
Hello.
I wore a red rain-jacket on our walk and now there is a cat trying to sit on my computer. The whole world outside is a mix of gray and brown and green. Puddles the size of an ocean take up much of the driveway, and as I walk by the tree out back, swishing and squeaking in my rain-gear, I notice that the berries are red—nearly as red as my squeaky jacket. I take a photo on my camera, and since it’s film, I wonder how it will look in black and white. I wonder if you’ll be able to tell that the red is red. The same red as my jacket.
I’m here because it’s Friday, and I’ve decided that I’m sharing a letter every Friday.
I have therapy today, and last week I cried during my session. There was no way around it. There hasn’t been. Not recently, anyway. And when we trudged up the steep hill, stomping through a sea of wet leaves that sprayed the backs of our legs with each step, I realized that it’s not about not trying hard enough: I am sad and angry and frustrated that it cannot be different. And now I am back inside, sitting here with the rain coming down harder and harder and the cat’s soft belly going up and down and up and down and the cold tea and the thoughts that tell me I cannot work or write or do anything at all.
These thoughts are loud and relentless and suffocating, so I focus on this to try and try and quiet the noise, but they are still there and I am still here, and together we see-saw back and forth until the gray light sinks from the sky and I can no longer see out the window.
It’s Friday, and I am here with a piece that I wrote after a rather indulgent day spent shopping for books. I remember feeling purposeful and happy while writing it. I remember my thoughts being clear. I remember it all making sense...
I hope that that still holds true.
Talk soon,
Chloe
It’s getting dark now, and I would still like to clean the windows, likely starting on the inside since it’s so cold out, but I had something I wanted to say, or at least I thought I did.
Earlier, when I was in the bookstore, there was this distinct feeling that I understood something that I didn’t understand before, and that I needed to write it down before it got away. At the same time, I also got overwhelmed, as I often do in these sorts of environments, and especially while shopping. You see, there were altogether too many books, and though I tried to push the overwhelm back down, it kept bubbling back up to sit at the base of my thoughts.
For the first 15 minutes of my stay in this little bookstore, I was the only one present, and aside from the low hum of the employees behind the counter, it was completely silent. I had purposefully not made it my first stop on an afternoon of errands dedicated to gift shopping, mostly because I knew that I was going to buy something for myself, and that I would enjoy it, and that I would feel guilt around enjoying it.
Before I go any further. I have to admit to myself that I have already abandoned the window-cleaning idea, and that my intentions behind it were unclear from the beginning.
Back in the bookstore, I was very pleased with the gift that I had spent the last 40-minutes finding (two books, both of which I will not name because they are gifts and I don’t want to give anything away). I also picked up Sally Rooney’s other two books that I have not read.
Earlier this morning, while the light drifting in through the window was still blue and dark and cold, I was thinking about what it was about her last book that had me so captivated; beyond the storytelling style, which I admire greatly, I am guessing it had something to do with being the same age as the characters, and relating to their mental state and general disarray. With their zooming in and out of their lives. Their outbursts and arguments and tension. With their asking of big questions, but always coming back to the stuff they said shouldn’t be as important, but always is.
The kind person ringing me up at the cash register (I was about to say till, but that sounded too British for an American to have any business saying), asked me which one book of her books she should start with, and I said I had only read one, so that’s the one I started with. She also said that it seemed like only anxious people really like her books. I told her that was true for myself, but that I couldn’t speak for anyone else. I have a feeling that I said all of this too loudly (as if trying to prove something—which is true).
She then smiled her kind smile to let me know she understand, and asked if I wanted a bag for all of my books. I nodded yes, smiled, and said thank you before turning around.
I think I’ve been doing that a lot lately: abruptly talking about really big things—things that are typically not topics of conversation suited for the situations which I bring them up in. I know it’s because there are few places (though they do exist, and I am so grateful!) where I can freely talk about having a mental illness, without someone desperately wanting to change the topic—or rather, where I kind of bring it up, tip toeing around any specifics like who or what or where or when or why, only to be met with a haha yeah, or I take medication sometimes. And then I crawl back into my mind and highlight the sometimes part, convincing myself that sometimes is ok, but all the time is not.
While standing at the far end of the bookstore, waiting for my free chai (thanks to the 10 punch card my partner had completed), I tucked the bag of books under my arm and pulled up Goodreads on my phone. Standing somewhat lopsided, I was only half-aware of the books I added to my want to read list.
That’s another thing about Sally’s book I like: I get the feeling that I could talk about all the uncomfortable things about myself with the two main characters. At times, and usually in the dim light of the morning, I’d pause half-way through a paragraph just to think about how happy I was to be curled up in this chair with them.
It’s absurd. But I think that’s maybe the whole point of it anyway: to feel seen and loved and understood.
She writes what she knows, and she knows what she writes really, really well. I love that. I love that and I am inspired by it, because though I don’t know a lot of things, I do know myself, what I like and don’t like and how I operate in the world. I know my longings and my shame better than I know anything or anyone. And I am too familiar with all of the annoying things I do and say—I get the feeling that there are so many pieces of Sally in each of her characters, and that many of the monsters they face, are ones that she faces too.
And now I’m thinking about what I was saying earlier.
About not wanting to bring up my mental illness out of fear of feeling small after leaving the conversation, but I think I had it wrong, or at least a little bit wrong. Yes, those things I mentioned can be true, but it can also be true that you choose to relate differently to it, and that you don’t require anyone’s validation in order to move ahead with something. I think that I bring it up in some situations because I’m looking for approval (of what, I don’t entirely know). But validating myself is me taking that power back so I can use it in much more useful or important or joy-filled ways, like writing this to you.
After the bookstore, I made one more stop before heading home.
Now, as I perch on the edge of a floor cushion, the sky is my very own cotton candy pink backdrop to the thin and curving branches coming from the tree just outside our kitchen window. The light fades and I shift over to turn up the heat.
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