Plans

Blue sky December fades to cloudy grey. Flat empty land rises into gentle hills, fills with skeletal trees and gas station islands lead to clusters of rundown houses. The smooth pavement submits to potholes and loose gravel. There, "Welcome to Cooper," the old sign quietly reminds us where we are. As we fly down familiar streets, my eyes pick out scattered subtle changes, strange and familiar faces walking down the cracked sidewalks. Finally, pulling into that driveway, there it is, the old white house. Faded wood, scraggly weeds and trees, a gun by the door. Home.

I'm taking it much better this time. When we came back over Thanksgiving, the feelings that rushed over me were crippling, physically nauseating. That sense of both being a stranger and coming home tangled in thorny knots in my stomach... but this time I'm fine.

Medicine or attitude? Both. I found out something interesting: you can still get depressed while taking medicine for it. Healing is a combination. If you try to heal with just thoughts, it's a terrible battle. If you try to heal with just medicine, it's a terrible battle. A battle is a battle no matter what, but doing both things definitely makes it less terrible.

So I'm doing my best, and it's going really well. I feel good. Last time, I couldn't write. Not writing is one thing, but not being able to write is another. It's a horrible feeling. But look, here I am, writing. Here I am, experiencing the world, contemplating the world, and sharing the insights I find from it.


I love the clouds. I love the skeletal trees. It's truly beautiful here.

Glen said "You always have music." I thought about that as I sat in my unchanged room and played Ukuhaley for a while. I sang and smiled at all the books in my room.

So I have plans. You know how plans are, but we'll see how they go. Get a driver's license, clean the house, play my song for my mom...

I had an exciting thought on the drive down here. Pen names. Writers use those. I spent a few moments in happy relief before I realized a pen name wouldn't be my panacea. Whether anyone knows who's telling the story or not, it isn't fair to reveal it to the rest of the world without revealing it to the people involved. Curséd non-fiction.

That's okay, though. Hard roads and difficult tasks are good things. They make for good stories and eventually some wisdom, or at least some experience.

So. Show as much kindness to my parents as I can possibly muster over the next couple of weeks. Start writing letters, very regularly. Salvage relationships. Send them the essay. Try to publish it with their blessing.

It sounds silly, of course. I can imagine eventually sending it to my mother. But my father? What would it be like to read your daughter's essay and discover you're the monster in the story?

Too bad it's a short essay. It isn't supposed to be the whole story. It's just one tiny frame... it's the response of a troubled college freshman to the question "What is home?"

It is not the complete chronicle of her childhood and interaction with her parents. It is not the summation of all her thoughts, emotions, and memories. It is a not a verdict.

But that's what they would think it is...

and so I've just told myself what I have to do. With the letters, I first have to establish a safe form of communication. Then I have to tell my story. I have to learn to trust them and teach them to trust me. I have to get them to believe that I am not a judge, my words are not a jury, and paper is not a courtroom.

Tall orders, tall orders...

I'm fighting a man. He's a giant who lifts more than Tom, has no ears, and his lips are stitched shut. He's tradition, he's a cycle, he's as old as the earliest families. He's angry, and he never sleeps. He is pain, and he is full of pain.

But I don't have to be stronger. I just have to be smarter.

Trust the floor.

Harden not your hearts.


I wish you the greatest strength of heart in your battles. That's all you need. Don't give up. I love you. <3