11:37 AM; Swarm—Winamac, IN
Sitting in the “Horseshoe Lounge” while Jacob does yoga in the corner. I am queen today, but I asked Nik, Zoe, Alyssa, and Enid for support since I’m feeling extremely socially anxious. Now that I have permission to spend time away from the group and even to leave when I want to, I feel better. Still not sure if I’ll leave tomorrow though—the thought of being around this group for an entire week longer stresses me out when I could alternatively be sitting quietly in Mom’s garden. But then again, Marisa Tirado is housesitting while Mom and Dad are in Colorado, so that could be awkward.
Sometimes—times like these—I don’t know how to be social at all—it’s like I’m a robot and I’m observing a different kind. I apologize constantly. I move unsuredly, I shrink. Is it because of the characters I perceive around me or is it my own chemistry? I miss Jeff and Alyssa and Tanner. I miss Mom and Dad. I miss clean feet and dry air. But they will still be there—why am I unable to embrace the now—this singular opportunity? I’ve begun to bleed for the first time in 5 years. My IUD needs to be replaced. I also need new car insurance. Adulting.
Vince the Baker has sat down next to me. Two others had joined the room while I’ve written. We all observe the silence. A soundtrack of bees swarming plays on some speakers—I don’t find it to be the most relaxing sound. But the clouds are at least keeping things cool (or the air conditioner) and for the first time during day hours I’m not sweating bullets. I forgot who recently told me “sweating bullets” only describes the circumstances when you’re nervous. Alyssa and Jeff I think.
The bee soundtrack has ended. Now only the hum of the air conditioner.
The first night here was so quiet—I had forgotten what silence sounded like. Not even like Minnesota where there’s the hum of insects. Then last night an incredible storm rolled in. I was in Alyssa’s tent that I’ve borrowed and wondering if at any moment the rain fly would rip away and leave me exposed to the deluge and strobe of lightening. I sat in tense fear, but also in wonder and awe of the fierceness of the storm. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much flash and wind, let alone in a tent, which held up remarkably well. Only a few puddles accumulated by morning in the corners of the tent, and my arrangement of blankets, yoga mat, and sleeping bag proved effective in keeping me dry. It will be quite a haul getting it all back to the car.
The storm, obviously, kept me up for different portions of the night, and I can already feel my need for a nap. How spoiled I am in my daily life—the luxury of a warm, dry bed to curl up and watch Netflix in. And to think I haven’t truly had access to that peace of mind for over a month since the move out. I’m extremely excited to move into our new place on Thorndale. Jeff and I will make good roommates and cozy home, and we’ll have two sunrooms to make into creative nests along with our extra bedroom, which I want to make into a recording studio. Plenty of room for all my books and glass birds. So many walls for art.'
BRB. Need to pee and sign up for Haydee’s tarot sessions.
—BACK, with coffee. I’m reading a book Jeramy left at Alyssa’s: Krista Tippet’s Becoming Wise (my pen is making mistakes everywhere—my pen, not me ;)). Surprisingly good—the perfect essay collection to get me recentered.
Being around so many artists makes me feel like my art is futile—there are already so many great minds creating great things. But then I remember the thing I wrote for my ICAH spotlight—only we can do what we can do, and I’m not the one who should be putting down my pen.
I want to make fireworks for the hive queens. I don’t know if I have the energy to make so many, but I want to. Maybe when I get home and unpack, I can make us all an ornament or something.
I think of my trauma a lot—I wonder and guess at how much of it factors into the way I carry myself through the world. I don’t mean to feel sorry for myself; I just don’t want to overlook it, diminish its reality in my body. Is that the healing process? Or am I injuring myself more? I feel like I need all the healers to get to the bottom of this with me.
And maybe it’s not me—I feel sad for America. Maybe I’m embodying and digesting our national pain. Like the poem I wrote for Freddie’s project: America’s abusive boyfriend. The gaslighting, boundary overstepping, abuse, general, insidious advantage-taking by the entitled minority, the various 1%’s of our circles… Maybe there hasn’t been a way to escape it and it’s just another wave of overwhelm hitting me. And maybe the reason I’ve been feeling so anxious here is because our little utopia feels so fragile or false. Nothing sounds better to me than to run away to a farm, in a tiny home, with Alyssa—a person who requires the quiet and space I apparently also need.