Dooced

Dude.

Dooce. I have so much to say. And I always say too much. 

Heather shined a light on the dark places, and I can't believe that light is extinguished. I just simply cannot believe that her voice is silenced. 

She was the narrator. 

The Pied Piper and Peter Pan. 

And over the last several years, I watched with deepening concern, and then dread, as her posts moved more towards something that felt scary and wild. Narrating life experiences that were raw and confusing and all too familiar. But then, a step beyond her usual irreverent and politically incorrect, boundary-breaking, filterless rants. And then another step. And another, It was dark and heavy. Angry, sometimes. Alarming at others. I had to look away. I had to hope that she was safe. After all, if this was what she was putting out onto the web, just a small sliver of her life, that life must be in absolute chaos offline.

What about the kids. I kept thinking about those kids. I (we all) watched those two glorious beings born and celebrated. We knew when they had colds, when they were potty trained, food aversions, habits and interests, talents and struggles. Changes. 

I knew they were safe because I knew they had Jon. But how could he shield them from the reality of what was unfurling. Unraveling. Unbelievable as it was unfolding - right there for all to see.

And yet I knew nothing and know nothing because all I know I learned online, through Heather's words and photos. A filtered, curated glimpse of a life I really knew nothing about. I am a stranger who in retrospect feels like I have spent 20 years peering through their window. A voyeur.

So I am just going to sit here and think about the weight and the light and the dark. 

The here and now and then and there. Jon. Leta. Marlo. and Heather at the center of a life I followed for so long, until I didn't. Until it got uncomfortable and hard and real. And then it wasn't all pretty pictures and madcap romps through life and love and religion and politics. As the loss edged closer and closer. 

I have one thing that I hope someone tells them: You could not have changed this outcome. You could not have predicted, or prevented. This is not your responsibility. This is certainly not your fault. 

Please, do not let it be your burden to carry. Set it down, now. Or let go of the string and let it fly away. Or untie the ropes and push it from you with all your might.

Set it on fire. Set it all on fire. And then, maybe, she will be free.

twofifty

 Gentle reader.

I know what you are thinking.

It's been a while.

And it has, I know it has. Too long. But you see, things changed. I am no longer in paradise. At least not the traditional sort of paradise. This one has falling leaves and fresh apple cider donuts. Roaring wood stoves candles glowing in windows. Explosions of daffodils and that smell of warm dirt. Lobster rolls and lazy days lying on a dock dangling a strict in the water with a piece of chicken attached, hoping to catch a crab for your bucket. And sub zero temperatures followed by mud season.

Yes, I have relocated. And for the past three years I have been in New England, definitely not writing.

You noticed?

I'm sorry. It was rude of me to ghost you like that. But I ran out of words, and I needed to do some things that were hard, and some things that were sad, and some things that were humbling. And now I'm back, baby.

But why now, you ask? Why today? What would prompt my return?

250.

Or to be clear, two hundred and fifty days.

Two hundred and fifty days have passed since March 13th, 2020. That was the last day before....... everything.

My last night at work.

My last weekend separated from my husband (more on that later) (promise).

My kids' last day of "normal" school.

My last dollar, spent at Walmart, buying cold medicine and kleenex and whatever else had been suggested in some article I read somewhere about what to buy to prepare for Covid-19.

And while things in my home were feeling pretty dire, I had it good. Because it has also been two hundred and fifty days since Breonna Taylor was killed in her home. In the hallway outside her bedroom. By a police officer who had just broken down her door. And whether he knocked first is irrelevant.

I survived March 13th 2020, and every day since. And I would be remiss if I didn't use my voice to speak up and speak out. Breonna should be here too. I never made the connection between her death, and everything in the whole country falling apart at the fucking seams like it did.

For two hundred and fifty days, I have been in a state of suspended animation. Scared to make any big move. Or little one. But not anymore. This is me pulling the plug, and letting it out. The anger, the sadness, the hopelessness and fear, the frustration and also the celebration. 

I. Am. Still. Here.

(So are you. I am glad for that.)