My parents got divorced when I was 13 years old, which is arguably the worst possible time for parents to get divorced. An awkward, depression-prone pre-teen, my increasing angst was engaged in the constant struggle for an outlet, and I had more friends on the Dave Matthews Band message boards I frequented than I did in real life. But one of the things you learn when you are a tween and your parents sit you down in the living room and tell you they want to end their lives together is that, contrary to what the TV and the radio and Tiger Beat tell you, the world does not actually revolve around you. Beside the credenza on the cheap embroidered couch my parents told me and my sister that they were separating, and instantly the focal point of our intimate family life shifted. Immediately our lives had very little to do with the small victories of childhood—the straight-A report cards and carpools and birthday parties—and everything to do with the fact that my parents did not love each other anymore.
This is an earth-shattering realization to have at 13, when every single event in your tiny universe is divided into two opposite camps: everything is either the best thing ever or the worst thing ever. How simple and black and white life is at 13! How simple it was to forget, to resent, that the pottery project I made in art class was meaningless next to the reconstruction of a solid family unit. It is like worrying about what to wear to a funeral. The details and minor accomplishments and joys of childhood were continually eclipsed by the larger picture—mainly, that our small, quiet, suburban life would never be the same again.
In college I would become maniacally selfish, perhaps in an attempt to make up for those years when the dissolution of my parents’ marriage wavered on the court docket. In 2001, tweendom ceased to be about Britney Spears and began to be about what to make for my little sister for dinner because my father, wholly obsessed with his job, was running late again.
I always made spaghetti: I was 13 and didn’t know how to cook anything else.
You know how my mission with this blog is to connect with people, make them feel less alone, and, as the tagline reads, make you feel like I’ve given you a hug?
Someone in Slate just called me a sociopath for that MM post I wrote about blogging and relationships. I guess I owe him like 890432 hugs.
Check out this piece I wrote for Millennials Magazine about how this blog impacts my personal life.
And this one about Garden State, in which I demand you acknowledge there’s beauty in the breakdown.
In the fall I get restless and think a lot about leaving. I go to sleep and dream about renting a car and driving due north, barreling straight up the coast until I hit the border, spill over into Canada, build a fire by a lake, put on thick knit sweaters and cozy hats. I think about applying to grad school, finishing a manuscript, cutting off all of my hair. I grow impulsive and strange, run down the middle of the street at sundown just to feel my heart squeal. I kiss near-strangers and ask someone to drive me to a far-away lookout point on a cliff in Marin just so I can see the Golden Gate up close. I end friendships and relationships brutally, with robotic ease. I think about getting another job, getting another apartment, doing anything that could alter the direction of my life, even slightly. I want to run very fast, into the ocean, into anywhere.
I am 22 and I have seashell bones and I have just learned how to be brave. In the winter, the snow looks more like rain and I know it’s time to fall in love. This requires things of me I’m not particularly used to: a willingness to surrender control, the decision to care very little about what the world thinks of me, and a flawless shaving routine. Our first date takes place on a whim, on a Monday at 11pm. As I dress I call out to my roommate, “This is so out of character for me!” He laughs, agrees, tips a glass towards his mouth. “I’m nervous,” I say very softly, to the floor, to the walls. “I’m ready,” I say, to the ceiling, to no one at all.
For months we love each other with West Coast earnestness, organically, like something grown in a vineyard. He finds an apartment with purple shutters in the Mission. I fly to San Francisco and meet with men in plastic badges and women in floral skirts. I get a kidney infection and spend the night in the ER. The next day, I forget to take the hospital bracelet off until midway through a job interview. At JFK, he meets me at the gate and we wait for a cab in the pouring rain. I want to say, “Thank you for making me brave, for reminding me that I belong in San Francisco.” Instead I press my nose into the crook of his neck, smoke a cigarette, fidget with my dress. At my apartment we undress each other and I break out into hives, red, gashy welts that spread angrily across my face and neck. In the morning, when I wake up, they’re gone.