Some epiphanies from the place where I have fallen back down 25 years roundtrip from my precipitous climb:
—And, no, this is not about the absolute ruination of life; there’s no failed marriage saga underpinning this, but I am more aware than ever how I am one divorce away from losing a grip on all I’ve ever gained—
But I will tell you, fucking the patriarchy is not nearly enough. Girl, you have to destroy it from within.
Because, genius and accomplishment notwithstanding, here I am, far from the front lines, trying to keep alive one old man who inadvertently utters racially problematic talking points even as I attempt to raise one very blond, rich boy through protests and pandemic, with outbreak of plague being brought to a crescendo by the very spectre of failed white masculinity himself.
My husband remains a bulwark in this man’s world, and let’s also not pretend we are without struggle from the sickness that pervades our surroundings.
I have hit every rung on the fall, every trauma of dysfunctional family relived, the raw pain of begging a parent back from death’s doorstep, and I can feel every cut and bruise of loss from the past few years vividly.
Where am I in all of this? My rage is animal, and it tells me I will have to kill and kill or be killed to escape this morass. I am weakened, beset by vampiric forces, yet some primal energy will not allow me to fall down.
Survival. What does it even mean sometimes? Shall we limp along, prey to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, maimed and bleeding but technically ambulatory?
Or shall we fight back from the precipice, fueled by anger and lit with righteous and riotous self-determination?
Individualism is folly, yet individuation is essential. I remain, more dimensional if not fully complete.