March Madnesses
Something's in the air; I can feel it in my gut.
Snow one day; suntans the next. Tornado warnings. Floods. Fires. March is like the mercurial child of winter and summer, back and forth, with winter always getting the weekends. We seem to forget how topsy turvy this month is, suddenly surprised and overwhelmed by layering. It’s also a tease, and that messes with your internal barometers. You don’t know when to trust that you can finally feel good outside. It’s been an especially icy winter. We crave warmth, hoping it will be sufficient balm.
I’m a massage therapist, and around this time of year, I have to remind myself and my clients that we live in weather. Joints ache on rainy days. You walk differently in the cold. Changes in pressure, coupled with gazillion particles of pollen, mess with your sinuses (Should I record an easy self-massage for sinuses? LMK in the comments).
This March, for reasons I’m still processing, has definitely been one of extreme internal weather patterns, physically and mentally. There have been plenty of contributing variables, a tornado of them, and the sheer amount of them may be what I’m noticing most. In March alone (lol to that High Touch paragraph about all the things that woman did to stay young in January), but back to me: I’ve started HRT, got a colonoscopy at the same age my dad was when he died of colon cancer, lowered the price on my mom’s house because we need it to sell like right friggin now, flirted with my old friends “restriction” (per doctor’s orders) and bingeing, and come to terms that I’ve been working too much and/or my aging body can’t work as much it used to.
Oh, and I’m grieving the end of a career of writing regularly for The Washington Post Magazine and its Home sections. I began contributing to The Magazine in 2001, via its First-Person Singular columns. This was a dream assignment with a dream editor. Interview someone local, who through their vocation or avocation, was bound to have a story to tell. And then, edit it down to just their words, like an “as told to” feature. It was a hoot, it confirmed my bias that people without PR people are the most interesting. That led to columns, essays and cover features. I learned a ton about owning my story, slowing down and never “just letting the editor write it” from David Rowell. I still send him 70 percent of these Substack essays, even though he’s not been my editor since a few years back when The Post chopped off its most beloved-by-readers baby, the magazine, and fired David and all the other staff with no warning. I continued to write until last year, working with a series of awesome editors and photographers in the Home section. I don’t think many of them are still employed. This is sad. It’s sad that I don’t write for this paper anymore and it’s super fucking sad this paper doesn’t exist anymore. So that’s been going on because I’ve been struggling to find a voice on here.
Gaining an audience on Substack is awkward. I always feel like I’m trying too hard. I’m a better writer with an editor, especially given the quality of those I’ve had. And love or hate it, The Washington Post is a brand that packs more of a whollop than A Long Story. My ego is like, what’s in it for me? Why are you restacking your own posts. Cringe. It’s humbling to realize that part of what you LOVED about writing is that lots of people read what you wrote. Wait, no. Am I being too hard on myself? Of course, I want people to read and be moved by what I write. This is why I need an editor. Everyone deserves an editor.
So to recap: career grief: hormonal intake; anxiety about my mom’s finances (est. 1982); anger at rich men; the Lindy West Rorschach Test for bodies and women; the wars; and last but not the least dramatic in my little world: the dreaded colonoscopy, which occurred a week ago today. Dedicated readers may recall me singing the Shasta theme song in the recovery room when I was given a magical mini-can, the size of a Barbie keg, of Shasta Zero and two packets of those magical graham crackers. Or you may have watched my day-after video in which I talked about how it’s weird to be reminded of how I sick I was, how normalized not eating was, how I got off on being a little light-headed and frail, of feeling I needed to be cared for.
This was my third colonoscopy, the first in this “eating frequently” stage of recovery and the first about which I was genuinely scared of the results. Were my bad, destructive habits finally coming to claim my colon like they had my teeth, hips and feet? I told myself I was catastrophisising ; then I told myself I was only calling it that to avoid facing the consequences of three decades of making myself throw up, gulping artificial sweeteners and binging on the poopy-pants Pringles.
Something about being in the hospital really makes me feel like a little kid, the most important patient. Is that what this whole eating disorder was? A cry for help that got rewarded by a skinny-obsessed culture? Yikes.
Speaking of Dad, he died of colon cancer at the age of 54 — a fact I had to repeat to every person I talked at the hospital (read the charts!) Honestly, I’m glad they had to ask. He was already in the room with me, his mortality, his death. Of all the lies, half truths and glossiest versions of my Dad I’ve had to reckon, the fact of his death at age 54 when I six is a certainty. I didn’t really know the guy, I just know he died. What kind of man would he be? What kind of daughter would I have been?
I can’t answer those questions, but I can take care of myself and ask for what I need. Today, I woke up not feeling great. My head was pounding, my tummy doing flips. I jogged to the grocery and the fresh air helped, but I still felt worn down. Desiree texted to see how I was doing, and I got real honest and next thing you know it I was crying in front of the ginger shots and emailing Sapna, my therapist. We stopped monthly visits six months ago, but I knew I needed her. She got right back to me. I’ll see her Monday, a day I’d already taken off, when my feet, and hips and lower back told me I had too. That gave me the courage to ask my friend, Neat, who I was scheduled to see today for a hair cut and color, if we could just do a cut, because sitting for that long in front of mirrors in a bright space is my anxiety’s cue, and I was worried I was going to stink up the bathroom, right across from all the sinks. I asked for a small change. It made a big difference. Then I met up with Des and took her home from the garage where she’d dropped her car.
Being with my friend, in physical proximity felt good. We’re excellent meme sharers and top-tier audio text senders, but sitting across a table, breaking bread and gawking at all the quarter-zipped dudes delivers a much better return. By the time I got home, Sapna has sent me referrals to two psychiatrists. I called them both, while I sat on a log next to a creek in the woods under dappled sunlight. Nature therapy always comes through. Anyway, back inside the house, from where Robert works remotely daily, and I often find it difficult to find a place to be without being in the way. Told Robert exactly how I was feeling and what I doing about it, and what I needed. Asked that he listen and not provide solutions — yet. Good talk. Now, he’s out with his two friends he’s known since Syracuse to watch the games and have dinner (update: the bar was too loud (lol) so they went to to speakeasy that’s actually inside the big sports bar for good wine and burgers). Then Desiree and I tackled Pyschology Today dot com, her from her deck, me from mine, looking for doctors that take my insurance and have experience with menopause, eating disorders, trauma and anxiety. Mom gave me a pep talk while I walked Laser in the sunshine, then I listened to Sarah Paulson read Amanda Peet’s recent essay in The New Yorker about the death of her parents and her breast cancer diagnosis. I cried the tears that had been building all day month.
The sun is shining now on my shoulder as I write from Robert’s recliner. The breeze is coming through the windows. My feet are up and I don’t have to work tomorrow. It’s supposed to rain all day. Better get used to the rain, as I’m going to Paris in April. Groundbreaking.
