Two weeks ago, Zoe’s car, lovingly named Marceline, reached her untimely end. The old gal ran out of steam; repairing her would’ve cost twelve times what she was worth. We’ve since replaced her with Lady Blue, another used car—but one that, as Zoe confirmed with the salesperson, has a working engine. Huzzah!
I fear I’m following in Marceline’s footsteps—er, tread marks? I’m exhausted. The past month or so has been intense: physically, mentally, and emotionally. I’ve been going nonstop, caring for myself less to accommodate for doing everything else more. At work, that means staying online past five (once, as late as seven-thirty). I doom-scroll before breakfast and after dinner, justifying it by saying I need to stay informed. On walks with Marmalade, I listen to podcasts or music, not to enjoy myself but because I’m unwilling to have uninterrupted time with my thoughts.
Sustainable? No. But self-awareness has never stopped me from falling into this sort of spiral.
It all came to a head last weekend, when Zoe and I went on a last-minute trip to D.C. to attend the March on Washington for Palestine. A seven-hour drive there on Friday, six hours on our feet that Saturday, and a seven-hour drive back on Sunday.
I’m glad we went; our hearts and voices cry out for a ceasefire so that the work of Palestinian liberation can happen safely, and there is a sort of relief in joining with so many others—in holding grief and rage and hope collectively. It was difficult, though; after all, it was only the second protest I’ve ever attended. Going from an action with fifty or so people to the largest action supporting a free Palestine in U.S. history is a lot. And I find it incredibly difficult to exist in the wider world—especially in political events, in places with large groups of people, in long stretches of time without guaranteed access to a trans-friendly bathroom. You get the idea.
This past week, it became painfully clear to me that not having a weekend of rest took its toll. So, I’ve tried—albeit half-heartedly—to take care of myself again. Not because I fear a broken engine, but because I fear a broken spirit.
In times of great tragedy, great grief, and great anger, it is all too easy to surrender to the weight of horror, to be seduced by the siren song of numbness.
No.
I take that back.
These are not “times of great tragedy, great grief, and great anger.” That has been the way of the world for so long, perhaps as long as the concept of empire has existed. Numbness has become our emotional homeostasis. The siren song we hear a month into Israel’s escalated genocide of the Palestinian people is the temptation to return to the mindset of September—when the horrors of seventy-five years of Israeli occupation were so normalized by our cultural consciousness that we didn’t register them as horrors. The siren song is an expanding window of tolerance, a gradual acceptance of greater atrocities.
When I was a dumbass teenager calling myself a nihilist, I so often cocooned myself in a comfortable apathy, all under the guise of Nothing Matters. I felt helpless to change anything, so I accepted everything.
In the years since, though, I have felt a subtle shift in myself (in large part thanks to both therapy and Zoe—and their required reading list for me, including bell hooks and Audre Lorde). Through love, I have learned how deeply I want. And what is wanting if not caring?
Oh, how I care!
I care so deeply about so much, which was only possible when I decided I cared about myself—decided to care about myself. No, there is no miracle cure to depression and anxiety and trauma and suicidality. I still struggle to carry those burdens. But every day, I wake up and make a conscious choice to stay alive. To enjoy the day with Zoe and Marmalade.
Caring comes with so much pain, grief, heartbreak, agony, sorrow, rage. I worry constantly—about climate change and genocide and my brother riding a motorcycle now and gun violence and transphobia and buying groceries and homophobia and racism and work and sexism and police brutality and discrimination and my Dad’s illness and, and, and! About big things and small, often in equal measure (thanks, anxiety disorder). And feeling helpless no longer stops me from taking whatever actions I can: attending protests and calling my representatives, yes, but also wearing a mask in public and making tea for Zoe.
As I work on my future bedroom quilt (yes, I personally believe most life lessons can be learned through quilting), sewing slowly by hand, I think of my life, of the blocks and the stitches that make it up. Big colorful panels, sure, but also small seams. All are needed.
So, I take care of myself and take care of my friends and take care of my community and take care of my world. And I put different amounts of energy toward different focuses of care at different times. I was in Washington, D.C., with 299,999 other people; if that means I need to spend a few days hiding in my apartment, knitting and eating ice cream, so be it!
I refuse to yield to apathy. I refuse to tolerate the intolerable. I believe in liberation for all, and I am committed to working toward it—one stitch at a time.
I saw some wildlife photos on TikTok that made me laugh out loud. If you find yourself in need of a smile, enjoy:
I’m sorry if my recent newsletters have felt like the same piece of writing, over and over again. But I want to hold hope close to my chest, and I believe in putting my honest heart into this newsletter. Nothing else has been on my mind, truly.
We’re approaching our first winter with Marmalade, and I’ve been suckered into letting her sleep on our bed some nights. She’s just so warm and cuddly!
We bought a candle called Christmas Cheer at Target—as well as our annual new ornaments—so we’re slowly preparing for my favorite time of year. I love the holidays! I can’t help it. Zoe is even going to make me peppermint hot chocolate tonight. Yum!
Zoe and I attended a transmasc craft party this weekend, which was such a delight! We got to make buttons with our names and pronouns instead of paper name tags (see below), so I’ll be wearing mine to any gathering ever for the rest of time. I’m so grateful for the opportunity to build queer community and to come together with people who have shared so many of my experiences in life.
Image Description: Emory’s hand holds a button above his gray couch. The button has his name and pronouns written in green marker, underlined with blue. The text is surrounded with yellow stars.
