bA

If there was such a thing as an alternate reality existence, one where I actually believed in the concept of traditional marriage, and I was in fact heterosexual, Lauren would, without a doubt, be the woman I'd want to marry. However considering that alternate reality doesn't exist, and I am quite content being myself, a single gay man, I'll accept that Lauren is my platonic blog crush. We all have them. For myself, this is an old crush, as Lauren was one of the first blogs I ever read. There are a handful of authors that motivated me, all for very different reasons, to begin blogging. She was one.

I have followed her faithfully for two and a half years, seeing her go from heading up Feministe, to a more personally focused goal of writing her own site, Faux Real. Sometimes writing less often, the entries were more lived reality than abstract applications of theory. Though whatever it was that she wrote, it was always something that left me feeling fulfilled. And of course, always wanting more.

There is an intangible style that some authors possess, making their words, their lives, and their hearts, occasionally leap off the page. Last Thursday morning I sat down to read the round of sites that I always do, and for whatever reason, that thing that is the essence of why I write in a journal commonly refereed to as a blog, hit me full force.

The power of connection is a strong one, especially when it occurs from seemingly unrelated experiences. Sitting at my computer, crying freely while reading words describing a time in a young woman's life where she was hopeless and disconnected from all that she knew, I was convinced she was speaking to no one but me.

When David died this past September, though I really only wrote about it peripherally, it was the only time in my life I had felt completely untethered. I was grounded to nothing, and anchored to no one. Having been a guy always in control, and being known and respected for the same, it left me terrified, and completely unhinged. And though I have never discussed it, because really what's the point, there were days I never got out of bed except to walk the dog. Sunglasses on, feigning deep and intent interest on what my crazy dog was doing, avoiding the platitudes of neighbours was possible. Those were the times I would literally ache to get back inside, where I could again hide from the world. All the while convincing anyone who phoned that Singher and I were "getting through", "doing okay", and trying to engage as best we could. What a complete load of shit that was.

From On Having Goals.

My pregnancy, obviously, was a major turning point in my life. Within the span of a year, I got pregnant, became homeless, graduated high school, started community college, became a mother, and (after a short reconciliation which moved me back home with my parents) moved in with a man that everyone except me wanted me to marry. My life was so dizzying and awful during this time that I spiraled into a deep depression and developed an eating disorder. Every night I retreated to the back porch of the apartment to smoke cigarettes, listened to the upstairs neighbors get drunk and fuck while my newborn baby slept indoors, while my babydaddy did his best to pretend he was somewhere else with someone else, and wrote in the journal.

It’s not a happy thing to page through, but sometimes I drag it out and reread it to remind myself where I’ve been, remembering the sad sympathy I must have felt a year after the thing had been abandoned, when I went through and scratched out all the unflattering things I wrote about Ethan’s father only because Ethan might someday find it. The journal is an artifact from the most desperate time of my life, an exercise in despair. But the thing I always turn back to is that list.

While the circumstance Lauren describes is about the farthest from anything I will know, the emotional place is identical. She mentions a list. I had my own. I had a few actually. Some choice examples that occupied a spot on the night stand for over a month were.

Get up today.

Remember to eat.

Feed the dog.

Brush your teeth.

Lie to your friends and parents.

Repeat the above tomorrow. 

I think only someone who has been there will look past the obvious humor in that example, seeing instead the crushing and painful existence it describes. A time when I literally had to remind myself to eat. Reminding myself that tomorrow would in fact come, was not the easiest thing to do while crying so hard it hurt, holding onto the dog, terrified of what would happen if I let go. It was the worst period of my life, and the most vulnerable I had ever been.

Slowly, in a way that only I knew how to do, I began to heal. Things got better. Months went by, and the reality I had constructed to comfort friends and family finally began to co exist with life as I knew it. Which is why reading On Having Goals hit me in such a visceral way. Lauren sums it up best here:

The list was a gesture toward hope when everything looked hopeless....

Obviously our lists and experiences differed greatly, but the idea of having an end point, a place to reach for, however small, is I think the key. And as much as they are different, our stories continued to follow a similar trajectory. One that slowly began to know a better life, as well as being centered in a better place.

Changed to be sure, but stronger for it. That is an equation I used to reject; the idea that pain and hardship build strength of character. I still reject it, as frankly I think they build nothing but more pain. Though it's the desire and action to move from that pain, where there exists that potential to gain something. If the simple act of writing down a reminder to brush my teeth could spur me on to drag myself out of bed and just fucking do it, then at that time, it was nothing less than a lifesaver.

Please read On Having Goals in full. It's a rare and beautiful documenting of this woman's journey. One that moves through pain, confusion and selling herself short, to somewhere she never thought she would be. It's an inspiring and honest read, and it leaves me with great respect for the strength and insight Lauren seems to possess.

I'd like to thank Lauren as well. Thank you for the opportunity to see myself reflected in your brave example, and to feel connected, however briefly, to someone who seemed to know in that strange but unique way, some of what I was feeling.