If you cut a cocoon before it’s ready an ugly, snot-rocket like goo will slip out. I comfort myself with this image whenever I’m struggling with big change; biologically, change is hideous (and in this example, it’s also something that lives in between two perfectly designed creatures). I’m comforted because it reminds me that I’m not broken for hating change, good or bad. Real change is hard, and in my experience if I don’t feel like a disgusting hopeless booger at some point during the process then I’m probably not doing it right, or at least I’m probably not going to get real results.
I’ve got some very thoughtful, kind followers who have DMd me asking follow up questions about my more personal posts, or who have reached out relating to my link honoring my dad. I’m not all that comfy replying individually to strangers, but I have had the most eventful year of my personal life, and I know that, for me, sharing has always helped me process anything too hard to digest. Knowing people relate is the extra antacid on top. And I’m struggling to stomach all that’s happened this year: in the span of less than two months I had a destination wedding, learned that my father died, that my half sister died, and that I was pregnant. I still feel like I’m talking about someone else’s story when I say all that. But the kick that just happened behind my belly button reminds me otherwise. I can feel him saying, “stomach THIS, bitch! This is happening!” Is ‘Stomach This, Bitch!’ the title of my newsletter? Is this even called a newsletter? A blog? A substack? A 2022 take on LiveJournal? I guess I want to call it whatever readers will think is the least lame.
I know it’d be much cooler if I didn’t imagine what my readers might think of me, but I’m certain my brain actually enjoys worrying about the judgement of randos in an effort to avoid grieving or processing big change… because barf! Why would I want to spend time in this booger-y state?? Rather than replaying my last phone call with my dad in my head for the millionth time (not a good convo mind you), why don’t I imagine a super judgey reader named Mary-Kate Kravitz with great hair who both hates me but who also, for some unknown reason, takes the time to read the entire episode 1 of my newsletter. She’s got a dad who’s always showed his love for her, and while reading my blog she mumbles things to herself like, “ugh does this bitch think she’s Carrie Bradshaw?” (Side note: do I call this my column? No, no, scratch that; it’s way too sexy).
I’d much rather torture myself with the image of a hater to keep me from doing something that deep down feels right to me than acknowledge how much mental trash needs to be taken out, or rather sorted and recycled. But I’m also afraid of holding too much pain in my body while it’s supposed to be feeding my son. What of my grief is my baby having to stomach? I loved my dad so much, and we had a complicated relationship to say the least. To my surprise his death is only making it more complicated, making it feel more unresolved. His voice has never been louder in my head. He lived in Greece for the last 8 years of his life, but died suddenly in Los Angeles during a quick trip; he was only 20 minutes away from my apartment when he died. He had three young cats, all temporarily being cared for by a student expecting my dad’s return, and who was certainly unable to keep them permanently. I suddenly, while nauseated and fighting pregnancy fainting spells, had a ticking clock to find homes for my dad’s babies, the ones he knew how to care for, across the globe, in a city where newly homeless domesticated cats is a recipe for a hopeless situation.
Thousands of social media shares and retweets later, my husband’s friend’s sister’s neighbor agreed to take all three cats; a miraculous game of telephone saved me from feeling even more guilt than what already comes with the death of a parent. I cried harder worrying about those cats than I did from hearing the coroner say in his own weird words that I’d never speak to my dad again. I think that’s because even the thought of more of his babies being abandoned was too much for my hormonal heart to take. I’m my dad’s baby too. And his death has made me really feel like a baby, unable to control or understand new emotions, crying at inconvenient hours of the night in the fetal position, wanting more than ever for a parent to cradle me and make it all better. *Kick, kick, punch* Oh right. I can’t be a baby right now. An actual baby is coming.
As someone who looks a lot like her father, I’m aware that my son has a good chance of looking like my father too. I’m left to imagine my father as a baby, a little life that gets to start from scratch, no resentments or horrible mistakes on his slate. I can feel Mary-Kate Kravitz rolling her eyes right about now, but what do you want from me, Mary-Kate Kravitz?? I conceived a boy just days before my dad died; is a poet not writing my life?? Let me be emo! It’s all that I can be right now! Yes, we all know that Mary-Kate Kravitz is me, or rather, my insecurities personified. And I cut my cocoon by entertaining her, validating her, letting her run the show. My goal in writing here, whatever I end up calling it, is to keep myself from cocoon cutting, to allow the booger to be, as long as it needs, as ugly as it is. Who am I to go around cutting cocoons anyway? I know I’m creating a life but I’m not god! (Is that the title of my newsletter? “I’m not god!” said in a valley girl accent? I’ll keep brainstorming).
There’s pain but also peace in remembering that healing is not on Alix time. I only have the power to slow it down by hanging with MK. The only way out is through as they say. It’s okay that it’s ugly, it’s even good that it’s ugly. I don’t have to unpack my dad’s suitcase forever. I can wrap myself in his leather jacket like I’m spinning silk.
♥