#totisviribusletters

[totisviribus]

An ADHD Morning

I set seven alarms so I don't oversleep. I couldn't sleep last night because I was researching ancient Rome on Wikipedia until 2am so I am bleary tired. My coffee maker is moldy from last week's brew and I don't even consider cleaning it, I just know that I won't be having coffee this morning.

I forgot to shower the night before, but now I don't have enough time to do it this morning, I got up too late. I use dry shampoo and hope my hair doesn't look greasy (it does). I scrape it into a messy pony tail that will give me a migraine but it's the only way it looks acceptable. My finger nails are stumps of dried blood because I picked at them all night. The inside of my lip is swollen and bleeding because I couldn't stop chewing on it, thinking about how I could ruin today. My eyebrows need to be plucked. My face is covered in acne because I never remember to take my makeup off before I fall asleep.

My bedroom is a sea of clothes, piled high to obscure the wooden floors. One hamper has some clean clothes in it, I know, but I have forgotten which one. My ironing board is under the piles somewhere, but it's broken, so I'll have to try to use the anti-wrinkle spray on the sweater I fish off the floor and hope it looks okay. It's already been forty minutes, how has the time passed this way? I will be late now, no hope of arriving on time. My sweater is covered in cat hair. Where is the lint roller? I look through the piles and can't find it. I spend ten minutes looking for tape to make a make-shift lint roller and it doesn't really work.

My dresser is filled with empty makeup tubes, used makeup wipes, glasses wipes, and used lint roller sheets. I pick out the products I use and quickly do my makeup on my unclean skin.

Purse. I need my purse. Which purse did I use last? Which has my wallet in it? I walk past the piles on the floor of my apartment, past the dirty dishes, past the mound of art supplies on my desk. I find my purse on the floor under my desk. Okay.

Socks? I need socks. My socks might show when I sit down in these too-tight too-short pants. I have to find matching ones. Clean ones? No, that's too much of a reach. I must just find matching ones. I search, digging through the floor piles. I find two that do not match, but are the same color. Good enough.

Fifteen minutes late. My cat chirps as he brushes against my leg. Oh! My little friend! He's so cute and sweet. My sister loves to get pictures of him, so I'll take one for her. Look up here, Blue! So cute. I should really update the instagram I made for him, I've met so many people who have the same type of cat. I should edit some photos of him today to post. He makes me so happy. I feel so lucky I get to have a cat and such a sweet, loving one like Blue. How many people get to have such a great pet? I'm so thankful for him, and I tell him so while I scratch his face the way that makes him purr.

I text my sister the picture. She tells me to have a good day. I try to find a cute GIF to send her to tell her to have a good day too. Here's one with Snoopy. She'll like that.

I also need to feed Blue. There are a dozen empty, smelly cans on the counter of cat food, but I pick a new one out of the box they were shipped in and put it in his dish with a random measuring spoon because all my other silverware is dirty.

Bag. I need to pack a bag. Laptop, keys, tissues, pens, notebook, headphones, charging cable for my phone. Is that everything? And my wallet, of course! Aha. That would be bad if I forgot that.

My shoes are dirty and scuffed but I don't have time to fix them. What kind of coat? I don't check the weather. I pick out a thin yellow one that I like. I've always liked bright colors. This will cheer me up to wear it. Bag, coat, keys, phone...where is my phone?

I have headphones on, listening to a YouTube video on two times speed, but I don't know where my phone is. I don't have time for this! But I can't leave without my phone.

It's deep in the covers of my bed. I don't remember putting it there between sending the GIF to my sister and now, but no matter. I found it.

It's twenty degrees and raining. I have no umbrella and my spring coat is incredibly inappropriate for the weather.

I've left my car on the street for a few days in an area that is only for 3-hour parking. The parking tickets are stacked on the windshield. I owe the city about $400 in parking tickets and I keep getting letters from the police that they'll boot my car if I don't pay. I messed up the days on my budget spreadsheet, so I won't be able to pay them for another month.

I have no gas. I check the miles my car estimates I can go with the amount left and compare it to what my GPS says. Just enough. Maybe. It'll be okay. I can't get gas now.

I forgot to brush my teeth. I forgot my laptop charging cable. I forgot to take my medication, and I forgot to bring my medication with me to take my second dose. When I finally arrive at my destination, I don't remember that my debit card fell between the seat in my car yesterday while getting coffee at the drive-thru. So I leave without it. I also forgot to put deodorant on.

I wonder what my coworkers would think of me if they knew about my messy apartment, my poor hygiene, my lack of planning skills. Will they notice my teeth aren't brushed? Do I have any gum, mints, anything?

My coworker sees me come in late with in an oddly-fitting outfit and messy hair, but I greet them happily when I come in. They say that everyone forgets things sometimes and lends me their laptop charger. I'll forget to return it, but they don't know that yet. They don't know about my kitchen or my bedroom or my clothes or my unwashed face or my parking tickets. They don't know that without my medication I will be useless for the entire day and get nothing done, making more work for them.

I'm an excellent actress. I pretend to be like everyone else, and somehow I pass the test every time. I'm a shy, kind, young woman - they would never suspect there is a moldy box of forgotten take out food in my backseat that I'll discover in a few days. People socialized as female are expected to be neat, organized, in control. They don't even consider that I might not be those things.

"What did you bring for the potluck today?" my coworker asks.

The ingredients I bought for the dish I signed up to make are rotting in my fridge, forgotten as soon as I put them there after shopping two weeks ago. I didn't think to buy them closer to today. I also didn't think to put the pot luck on my calendar.

I make up an elaborate story about how my boyfriend needed to be picked up from a far-away job site last night. She believes me and I feel I don't deserve it.

I wish I wasn't a good actress.

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[totisviribus]

Summers of Pine

“The desk,” she says to the movers. “I must take it with me.”

Her father’s desk. Her father’s father’s desk. Passed down for generations. Letters written, tears shed, hair brushed, papers shuffled. Wood worn with flickers of past lives from which she cannot be separated. A new home without The Desk? Unimaginable. Inhospitable. She may as well leave her soul at this old house, too. Her maiden name, an identity quickly fading from her life like a feverish dream that slips away within moments of waking, lives within that desk. The warmth of her father still rattles in the loose hinge on the second drawer.

She finds the best place for it, in the living room. By the window, where the dark grain can soak up the sunlight and be admired by anyone who steps foot in the room. She dusts it daily, sits down carefully, tugs on the drawers with the gentle hand of a preservationist in a museum. Writes thank you cards to her wedding guests, signs school permission slips, makes grocery lists, traces a finger line by line in a dictionary. Stacks sympathy cards next to the vases of white lilies.

After decades in the sun, I can still see the glow coming from the back of the antique store. The passage of time becomes painfully apparent when observed through things once treasured. Under the weight of a defunct typewriter and a box of postcards, The Desk wheezes a question in my ear, seems to reach out for my passing hand. Calling in silence, summoning ghosts I can feel but cannot see.

“Your lifetime is my summer vacation, child, shall we spend it together?”

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[totisviribus]

You Too?

The artist sees suffering clear enough to translate it

The artist smells fear, hears pain, tastes death

The artist paints a picture that hands you a magnifying glass

‘Oh, there it is,’ you say. ‘After all this time.’

The artist writes a poem about your mother

Even though they could never have known her

This stranger feels my grief, through centuries, across miles?

The artist has the weight of sadness on their shoulders

Cutting back a wild, untamed forest into a lush meadow

They remove the weeds, the thicket, the fog

The artist molds your agony into beauty

Wraps nightmares in ballgowns and writes you in as the hero of the story

Not the victim

And though it feels like a handwritten Christmas card, the art was not made for you

The same way the stars did not align for your gaze only

No matter how quiet your driveway feels at night

The artist traveled through paragraphs and brush strokes

To reach out a hand and say

Me too.

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[totisviribus]

Born to be Consumable

Girlhood* is all about this exhausting, pointless wandering to collect berries in our baskets because the world makes us too timid to grow our own fruit. Pave our own way, be different from how the world understands what a girl should be? Of course not. Our very existence is a nuisance, therefore we must not cause any trouble. We must be simple to understand. What kind of girl are you? They give us plenty of labels to choose from, how can we not just pick one? Hot, weird, ugly, smart, too girly, not girly enough, a tom boy, a slut, wanted, unwanted, troubled, ADHD, fucked in the head, strange, too fat, awkward, basic, a prude, annoying, magnetic, special, talented, autistic, boring, in need of a makeover, too skinny, fun, the main character, a mean girl, a party girl, a guy's girl, the it girl, "that" girl, the dark academia girl, the artsy girl, not like other girls?

The world thinks women, young and old and in between, are billboards and we must loom large and bright over our cities whether we like it or not. Our text must be clear and big and easy to see from the highway. We can't be presumptuous enough to think that people will make the effort to squint at confusing text and illegible fonts they've never seen before. People need a clear advertising message. Otherwise they'll look the other way, buy from a different brand. What are we? They want to know at first glance. In seconds, moments. We're a brand, a type, a trope. There cannot be nuance, contradictions, abnormalities, change, growth, variety. The customer is always right, they say.

It took me twenty-six years to realize that I'm not in the business of selling myself on that billboard. I can no longer strategize, I can no longer mask, I can no longer pay the price of repainting that billboard over and over again, each time more painful than the last. I will be no one and nothing and I will rest. I've scraped off all the layers, down to the original hue. I don't want the attention, the examination, the interest. There will be no going out of business sale. The previous version of me that lives on a dusty Facebook profile and cries night after night because I'm not Rory Gilmore or Miley Cyrus or Megan Fox will be fished out of a bargain bin at TJ Maxx, eventually.

I was born to be consumable; I will never be able to take the billboard of my girlhood down. It will sit blank and decay over time.

But I can finally live, now that I am no longer killing myself to be understood.

*The gendered language in this letter is not used with the intention of excluding people who are trans or those that are non-binary. It was written with my experience as a cis woman in mind, but it is in no way an assertion that only cis women are hurt by the effects of being socialized as female, or to the same degree. The last thing I want is for anyone to feel excluded by my letters, especially given the recent hatred against the trans community by a certain famous author. My blog will always be a kind, loving, welcoming, safe space for everyone. ♡Maeve

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[totisviribus]

A racist Facebook comment section got to me. I told my dad I think most people are bad. That the world is filled with people who are hateful or selfish or destructive. There are only some who are good and they are in the minority, I told him.

He was shocked and upset with me. “You can’t think that,” he said. “Most people are good.”

And I scraped the bottom of my energy well to say,

“I’m glad you think so.”

My dad believes in god.

I wish I could too, sometimes.

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[totisviribus]

You are inconvenienced by my work, my sense of time, my mess. You are frustrated, fed up, sick and tired. I used to be good at my job, you say. I used to rely on you, you say. Now I can’t defend you anymore, you say. This is my last chance and though I promise I will not destroy your neat and tidy world again, it is certain that I will. Certain as the sun rising in the sky. I keep that a secret. Future disappointment I can’t bare today. I will bare it tomorrow.

Everyone thinks I’m lying when I say I’m sorry. When I tell them I understand. When I say it’s valid to be angry. When I say it wasn’t my intention. I won’t argue. But I can’t say what I want to; don’t cry at work, the articles say. But if you saw me as human, I would look at the brown tiles of your office floor and say to you:

I hate me too. I’m frustrated with me too. But I can’t hate me, I’m all I have. That person that can’t remember deadlines and has a messy office and cries under pressure, she’s all that I have. Forever. And she’s so tired, she has tried so hard to get up on time. To remember to shower. To remember to pick up her adderall from the pharmacy and take it each morning. She is trembling with weakness and she is so deeply sorry for existing. But she does. And she can’t do any better. I pick her up every morning in my arms and tell her I love her because no one else will. I clean her, feed her, make her coffee, stroke her hair, dry her tears, pay her bills. She is precious to me. And worthless to you.

If you can’t defend her anymore, don’t. We’ve made it this far on our own, we’ll get somewhere someday where we won’t cry over parking tickets and forgotten birthdays. Where people will look at us and love both me and her together.

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[totisviribus]

You’re a spitfire

You’re a flame

You’re the practice that makes a perfect game

You’re a spitfire

You’re a map

You’re the place where gold and silver overlap

You’re a spitfire

You’re candy-coated

You’re the fear that keeps my gun loaded

Go be a spitfire

Go be a flame

Don’t come back if you won’t remember my name

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[totisviribus]

Letters to Myself, #001

My knee is in the dirt of my kingdom

I humble myself before you

My sword has rusted with ocean water

But it will never grow dull

Allow me to be your mirror

Allow me to be a reflection of your sobering truth

I will travel beyond myself to convey your likeness

I will stay stagnant all my life to treasure your sweetness

I will give forty lifetimes to preserve your gifts

I have seen you cry for children that you did not bare

I have seen your suffering destroy worlds and yet you always bring them back again

Power strong enough to kill and softness that never does

My dear I have always been in pursuit of your justice

We share a reservoir, a body, a Christmas hymn

We run across continents to chase the fates' temptations

Let us dream, sister

Let my honor become feral with its true purpose

The conveyance of sunlight within you

To shine on the depths below

Let us move the Earth

Let our swords be

Just a reminder

Of the choice

To live

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[totisviribus]

I wish I could split myself in two so that someone could give me a hug when I need it, I say.

That’s so sad, you say.

I’ve done it again, I’ve mistaken a lack of agony for hope.

Is that so wrong? I’m a lighthouse that can only shine during the day; I’m useless, sure, but at least my beam is burning.

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[totisviribus]

I love you. I love you, I love you

I say to myself

With 45 unread emails

Tasks undone

Bills unpaid, collectors calling

Fires burning, matches smoking in my hand

Rotten food, lost friends

I can’t be trusted

And I can’t take a shower

I still love you, love you, I say to myself

You’re awake

What a good job you’ve done

While everyone out in the world works and cooks and produces and runs

You opened your eyes

All over again

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[totisviribus]

I see Peace the way Abraham saw God

I would kill what I love most just to appear worthy of the Eden it promises

But what if this whole time I have been Isaac

And my art is prepared to sacrifice me

Knife raised in the name of glory and praise, an undying faith to the craft

I fear an angel may never come

No, I hope it does not

For how could I be relieved to see a ram burn in my place

Knowing the lengths my ego would go

Just to be admired

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[totisviribus]

Sometimes I talk to Who I Could Have Been. She visits unannounced, abruptly. She’s wearing a scarf over her beautiful hair like Audrey Hepburn and big sunglasses, which she takes off slowly as she surveys me with sharp, feline eyes, liner flicked immaculately. Her clothes are wrinkle free and feminine, her coat season-appropriate.

“Same old, same old with you, hmm?” she says to me.

I’m sitting on my living room floor, painting on a canvas and do not initially notice that I’m also painting the white carpet green. This is a rental. I’m wearing the same pajamas I’ve worn for two days, teeth unbrushed and finger nails dirty. I’ve got paint on my hair and on the cat. Dishes are piled high in the sink, my car is on the street with a parking ticket on the dash, and I haven’t seen my bedroom floor in so many months that I forget it’s hard wood. I’m late for dinner with my parents but I won’t notice that for another hour, when my mom will call and tiredly tell me “it’s too late to make the drive now.”

I don’t notice any of these things. I just found an audio book that I listen to on 1.75x speed. I forgot about all the wonderful paints and markers I have, finding them has returned a spark to me. I spent so much money on them, once. I forgot how nice it is to sit on the floor the way I did in elementary school before anyone realized I was a nightmare for a teacher and an irritant to my parents. While they still thought me talking nonstop was charming. While my messy desk went unnoticed and I’d never cried in a school bathroom. I should always sit in the floor, I think. It feels better down here.

Who I Could Have Been is annoyed. She can’t put her briefcase down anywhere, the coffee table is covered in mail and newspapers. Newspapers I should have put under the canvas. She goes down the list of her accomplishments to me, her law degree, how smart she was with her money, how clean her house is, how high her credit score is, how her life is manicured and set and smart. How she flew through school like a bird heading south. How she never failed a class or has been late to work or cried about bugs eating all of the food she forgot about in the fridge. Mom likes spending time with her. She has friends. She eats 3 meals a day.

But she’s never had to tape shredded joy together the way that I have. My story was tossed carelessly into that unfeeling machine, once. But I’ve fished out every ribbon, and taped it carefully, little by little with care and patience. And the picture is coming back into focus. She doesn’t know what this trivial piecing together of myself means. She sees a failed girl fiddling with a hopeless task.

She has her arms folded, waiting for my response, glaring at the layer of dust on my TV. I say to her, my voice full of peace it seldom can hold on to: “I forgot we had so many paints.” And I smile.

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[totisviribus]

Your love understands me to my deepest core, as if you painted me by your own hand. It’s elastic, forgiving, assured. You seek not to change any detail, any habit; you’re generous with the warmth of your sun, lighting the path not which you chose for me to follow, but to simply carry the lantern beside me as I find my own way home.

If soul mates do not exist, isn’t it the most beautiful, wonderful coincidence that we have the privilege of loving each other this way? To have a hand to hold, a bed to share, peace to relish in? Marriage feels too mortal, paper thin; exchange rings to prove our love? No, your fingers curling around mine in the darkness of 3am is the only proof I need to know what is true.

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[totisviribus]

My religion is compassion

I pray to the light left on

and to hands held

I am on my knees for a humanity dignified

and a time when

We may forget the color of blood

and how easy it stains

I cannot age when I keep crying over history repeated

I offer my shock as a tithe, the price of my worship

A raised knife on a mountain

no angel in sight to stop me

I offer devotion as a heart unhealed

what pieces I have left are put in that small basket

extended down the pew

My church is the broken back

on which help is carried

My god does not die on a cross

and ask for power in return

My god does not stand by when the bombs are dropped

and tally sins

My god is running

straight into the blackest death

and dying

only in the name of keeping

the light on

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[totisviribus]

I’ll scroll and scroll and I won’t cry. I’ll work and work and I won’t cry. I’ll scream and scream and I won’t cry. I’ll fail and fail and I won’t cry.

At 3am you’re asleep and you’ll find my hand in the sheets. Squeeze it. Run your thumb over my knuckles. Dreaming.

Only then will I weep. Only then will I be warm enough thaw.

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[totisviribus]

Sometimes all I need

is time to dream by the lamplight

To sigh at a witch's hour

Sit back in my chair

and cry to myself

for how grateful I am

that my art exists

And that even if I am the only one to ever enjoy it

even if my dreams die

and the time runs out

and people get up and leave my theatre

before my show starts

that I have loved myself enough

to make what was not there

before

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