BOO
February is the new October
Needed to shut up for awhile, you feel me. Decided to blast off on the most watched sports event of the year. HITMAN is officially coming to you when I feel like I have anything to say and, therefore, is free. It will still be Sunday nights. Weekly, biweekly, monthly, or annually? I cannot give you that but I can promise when you tuck in on Sundays, I’ll be there sometimes. This hit is a work in progress. I’m trying to iron out it’s connection with another piece and don’t think I’ve got this bad boy sewn up exactly so, BOO, in a month you may get the same thing but different. I’m trying to learn to write about depression and suicide so you’ll see bits of that, heads up.
WHAT HITS
You have three more weekends in Chicago to see How to Be Cool performed and written by Neil Bhandari. I’ll be there on Thursday. Neil is writer hero to me. Tickets here.
Cloud Cuckoo Land is a book I’ve been meaning to read but have put off as I’ll know Anthony Doerr has the ability to destroy. He did again. It’s long but the chapters are short. A ten year old asked me how many pages it was and after I told him he said his book was 200 pages longer which totally sucked considering the age gap. He made me feel better by saying he had a book two years overdue from the same library. I said the librarians would understand if he returned it because he’s a kid and they’re excited when kids like to read. He said, “No, they’ll be mad. But I have a plan. Put the books in the slot and run for my life.”
A DRIP on cash and hope
I’m trying to find a new pair of jeans. If I am lucky enough to make it to a deathbed, I fear they will present a pie chart of all the hours you spent doing things. I consider this every time I pick up my phone. If I don’t develop a better relationship with it now will my chart tell me that 17 years of my life were spent in peril facing the screen? I possess the power to lower that number. The time spent looking for jeans is not a relationship I can control. You have to wear pants. You don’t have to look at your phone, but, legally, you have to cover your ass. Does it matter? No. But it has to. At the start of this writing, I had spent roughly 6 weeks actively looking for a new pair of jeans including perusal online, trying on at home, driving to the UPS store to return, driving to store, trying on in store, putting hand on mirror and looking down at floor to take breaths in store, etc. The final deciding zip marked ten weeks on the hunt.
I like a paycheck. I don’t love what I have to do to get one currently but I know few that do. I accept the fate, continue with the enjoyment. The first thing I do every other Friday is not give thanks for three things like I do most mornings but open the Chase Banking app and distribute what’s new amongst savings, checking, credit card debt, and my Wealthfront account that I had all but abandoned until last month when it lost patience and told me I would retire with $30,000 unless I started dropping $100 in it every 30 days. You can adjust ages on the Wealthfront app, a tool built to terrify but ignites nothing within me. Retire at 65? That might hurt, Catherine. 67? That’s where you’re safe. 55? At this, the phone began to shake and hiss, 55? HA HA. WITH OUR PREDICTED INFLATION RATES? GOOD LUCK OUT THERE, LIVING ON FLOUR, SILT, AND LOVE LIKE THAT GUY AND HIS SON FROM THE ROAD.
It’s responsible to invest in a retirement account. I repeat this psalm and send $100 towards a future unpromised rather than 50 cups of gas station coffee today. Not once have I been peaked at the thought of having no money at retirement. My Dave Ramsey centered financial education seethes at the lack. To Dave, we were each to grow to have steady jobs with health insurance. He never spoke of the gig economy or dreams. I assuage his teachings in other ways like taking pride in my EXCELLENT credit score, paying my Sapphire credit card bill off every morning after the three gratitudes, using my Southwest credit card for emergencies where I need to appear rich but refuse to let the debt exceed $500. I moved in with my parents to pay off my medical debt from surgery as fast as possible. I don’t buy anything, ever, to a fault. Living so frugally that I can point towards it as the source of embarrassment in several social situations. I listened, Dave. From your wisdom, you’ll mark both gain and loss on my line chart. But playing with the future felt like a joke from the beginning.
There was an article recently about how dirty rental clothing actually is. The author didn’t know what to do when she sat on poop in the train. She called her mom for assistance. They settled on washing the pants and returning them. It was stunning. It went on. Another customer found ten fingernails in the pocket of a dress she rented. Later that day, my clothing rental company sent me a text to remind me about my return. They’d added a new line to the typical cadence, “Don’t forget to check your pockets!” If they were chewed off fingernails, the customer who found them wouldn’t have taken the time to count them. She would’ve flung them in the trash at first recognition. If they were real and she counted? Her loss to time. Likely, they were fake fingernails peeled off at a wedding after one fell off - a classic tale.
The tone of the article seemed to believe we would all find this disgusting. I disagree. Every once in a while, I catch a difference in myself that can only be chalked up to growing up in the country and understanding toughness. This disagreement may be founded in that but I’ll try anyway. The writer seemed concerned as to whether she should feel guilted into buying the poop pants. I respect the responsibility but poop washes out. It seems like the real problem is the lack of public toilets. Regarding the fingernails, it is feasible that the rental company pulled the dress out of the box, hung it on a hanger, sent it through dry cleaning, folded it up, tucked it into the next clothing rental, and the nails stayed put. I’m not trying to die for a rental clothing company, but the entire piece felt both off the mark and the absolute least of our worries. I read the whole thing like a lamb.
I started listing gratitudes first thing in the morning, not everyday, but more than often than not. I start small, beginning most days with a “safe bed to wake up in.” When my parents are home, I list them quietly. When they are not, I yell. On heavy mornings, three is sufficient. On lighter days, one begets another and at the end of the streak I could not dream up a better life. The end of this freedom nears to yell nears. Soon I will not be able to sing the name of each family and friend before noticing the ducks outside and pointing to them like a rockstar crying, “and for YOU, and YOU, and YOU.”
I looked at my closet the other day and realized I haven’t bought new clothing since he died minus some workout leggings. A few months after he passed, I started to rent six items of clothing a month for $105. Every dollar I have ever spent hurts a specific part of my spine but, like Wealthfront’s warnings, I felt nothing with this transaction so I continued. The six things arrived and allowed me to be things I aspired to be, bright, colorful, almost-new. They make me excited to get ready and go do something. Sometimes zippers don’t work or there’s a mystery stain. A coat I rented recently had a small cigarette burn on the wrist. If I could write a clickbait article on rental clothing, I’d write the reverse. I don’t celebrate when a piece of clothing arrives like this, but I don’t mind feeling the feeling of wearing something that someone else tried to be something else in. Some call it gross, I call it camaraderie of risk. Tomato, tomato.
There have been blips when I have not been so tight with money. I had a tech job for a year with a decent salary and incredible health insurance. The job itself was something that I couldn’t reframe into a task that I respected. It felt like an imaginary task in a made up land that didn’t help anyone. I would sit through meetings with early-stage startups who were looking for the specific person that could sell their revolutionary new tech product and nod my own in false agreement. Each product mimicked another. There was one product that was revolutionary, climate focused, made a positive change by catching a loophole in laws and taxes. You could sell it to climate-deniers and you weren’t selling them out, but putting money back in their pocket. Everything else was some sort of Onboarding or HR or AI software that looked and operated like everything else. They all had $2 million, a year to prove it, and the self-importance of someone who was saving lives. I could call bull on a product within the first few minutes of the pitch. Really. Anyone with any sort of street smart could predict what would succeed or fail. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I’m dumb. I watched 45 minutes of Jeopardy the other day and the only answer I got was “What is moonshine?” These guys went to Ivy League schools and have access to fentanyl free coke. They live with no reaction to ATM fees and automatic liberation from collapse. The majority craft glaring failures reframed as optimization but boil down to, at best, elevated imitation, and at worst, exploitation. I’ve never seen anything like it except for every other industry I’ve worked in. For an entire year, I signed receipts without feeling anything.
I went to a concert in a rented dress and a woman amidst the flock grabbed my arm,
“THE DRESS! Where did you find it?”
“From Nuuly,” I yelled back over the crowd.
“WHAT?” she cried.
“NUULY! FOR LIKE $100 A MONTH YOU GET SIX ITEMS.”
“RENTING! Everyone’s renting! I can’t bring myself to do it. It’s so…ehhhh,” and she disappeared into the crowd, flinging her High Noon about like a lantern.
I turned to Ry and said, “Was that a compliment?” He replied, “At first.”
I’ve dabbled in Buddhism throughout my twenties but have had the time to dig into it steadily in the last year. Buddhism doesn’t freak out about death. Teachings speak often of samsara, the cycle of birth, suffering, death, and rebirth. Most Buddhists believe death marks the end of this life and the passage into the next, just one spoke among infinite spokes of the cycle. Samsara occurs in each experience, so potentially multiple times a day. It’s an elementary idea to find and accept, to turn around and explain like I’ve really found something. I feel like I’m running up to you holding a rock saying, “oh, it’s a rock! It’s a rock!” But it’s comforting to hear the idea that you die all the time and you can take it seriously but it’s chill. I’ve died thrice today, and once was when an old man in spin class got off his bike to help me latch the pedal to my foot. A new Cat writes now. Once published, I’ll count as many dead Cats as times I sat down to edit. How many times have I cried that I cannot be what I once was? That things cannot be as they once were? Because samsara, buddy. I can’t return to the person studying the pedal for clues under the strobe light. I cannot return to what was three years and one month ago. I have never seen a leaf crawl, hand over fist, back up the tree in September.
I aim to not dream of the relief of a large paycheck, rewiring myself to know that love and health are of greater value. It has never been large but it has always been enough. Many paychecks, I have money left over which is not the case for so many. It’s repeated to me that I can’t live like this, your pain is real. Sure, but so is perspective. What good is it to reprimand yourself for gratefulness not springing up untouched from within each time? Comparison cannot be the healthiest route to thankfulness but it’s undeniable when our access to the world’s suffering lives in our pocket. I watched the video of Dr. Hussam Abu Safiya walk over the ruins of his hospital before I walked into a job I don’t feel passionate about. No part of me feels bad for me. I’m not foolish. The path from my car to the door, clear of bodies and debris. In no way am I grateful he is in the situation and I am not. In mundane moments like that when I catch such extreme suffering it feels like the only choice is to try and emit enough gratitude back into the world for peace and bravery that something gives. I have no idea what else to do. I wonder how people with large paychecks feel on payday. Even better than me I’d bet.
I moved in with my parents to pay the doctor bill and because I wanted to hang out with my dudes (my parents). I also moved because my head was stuck. After his death and prior to this move, I had flown to them three separate times. How I wish I could thank my therapist for teaching me at 9 to understand what I must do when a certain line has been crossed inside. She taught me that suicide is not a thought to be feared, but one you must learn to respond to. With grief, a depression I have always been in conversation with amplified at warp speed and I was ill prepared. It was more acute than before but, again, carried on with an argument I didn’t agree with. We’re getting better with depression but we’re still very quiet about suicide. The CDC put out a report that 22% of teens in the past year have thought about suicide and 13.2 million adults have seriously considered it. It’s a pretty normal thing. When suicide is acknowledged online it’s typically after someone has passed and the post ends with a few sentences on it being ok to ask for help and highlighting numbers to call. It’s the best we’ve ever been about talking about it. These posts are well intended, rooted in love, but so scared in tone. And yes it is serious but if you’re in the thick of it you have to teach yourself it’s also not serious. One of the many ways in which you learn to cope with depression or intrusive thoughts is by learning that a thought is a thought is a thought, one isn’t more powerful than the next. Your great daily attempt is to hold that perspective especially when the thoughts are as real as self harm. Perhaps what I’m critiquing is our tone which, I mean, come on Cat. I believe what I may be doing is telling a bunch of people just trying to write a caption to help that they’re doing it wrong. My critique is off the mark but I also don’t want to not write about it because if I’m scared to write about it then I’m doing exactly what I’m talking about, letting a part of yourself be a thing to fear when it’s really a book on your shelf. I needed one adult to say by the way if you have intense depressions that cause you to grapple with suicide it’s totally chill and normal and you’re not a freak and we’re going to make a plan. I found one that did but I got lucky.
I wish there was a buddy program for people who have dealt with depression a long time and a short time. I’ve got a clean 22 years in the game. I’d pick them up from their house with two gas station coke/horchata suicides and we would go for a drive and talk about it. I’d say it doesn’t ruin your life. Some days it’s helpful to have the label, others it isn’t. It requires attention. You have to set your mind up every morning. You have to do stuff like journal and meditate and pray and therapy. You might need meds or not, no big deal either way. Maybe you’ll need to dive into a bunch of poets or religious texts or learn to express it through art or cut off some friends. You’ve got to point at so many ducks, man. Half the time you’re just pointing at ducks or bugs going, “wow!” because you know how important it is to stay awake to the world. Like there were a bunch of geese in the parking lot that sat down in the parking spots today and wouldn’t let cars park. Really funny stuff. You’re out here noticing the world all the time, really, it doesn’t ruin your life. You have to make a friend, like me, which is someone you tell when you need to tell someone and I’ll go, “no sweat,” and we’ll take a drive while drinking the most rewarding fountain drink to date (again, 50% fountain coke & 50% fountain horchata) and listen to a white bitch rant about samsara like she knows anything about Buddhism until you’re so annoyed you tell me to shut up. Ha! Take a sip, seriously. What I’m saying is you’ll find a way, it will probably look different than mine. I’ll shut up. We can just drive.
To tell someone caught in the throes of a depression to be grateful would be a mistake, creating only more isolation between them and you. The idea of finding something to live for can fail when depression has pulled you down too far. Samsara really popped a wheelie for me. I don’t have to fight the feeling of wanting out. I can just go ahead and die. And when I die, I don’t necessarily need to label that depression. I can just be dead for awhile. I’ve always skipped that part. Re-birth to re-birth to re-birth again. Live or evolve. Run from anything else. Grief laughed at that. An expensive psychiatrist called it high-functioning depression and I said, “Functioning! Thanks so much, Richy, beautiful work here,” and he said, “Sit down.”
This year I got to try dying. Mom made a new recipe for dinner and Dad texted to see if we had a combined total of 15 visits at the gym and I kept dying until one day I woke up grateful. I take workout classes 4x a week where I sprint up fake hills while staring at real mountains through massive windows, drink water like an answer, eat name brand cherry vanilla ice cream in droves, sleep eight hours each night, and hang out with my dudes. I’m in my physical and mental prime and have reached the ultimate internal conclusion - I am the only one in the way. This is the Denver the lore whispers to you when you look down to see someone else’s piss dribble across your boots on the train. This is the effect of 300 days of literally brighter sunshine. Just kidding. I wish I could tell you it was Denver or Buddhism or prayer or therapy or hours spent in the mountains. It was all of those things but the other thing that was missing for a full calendar year was an absence of stress over money. I could afford to examine, afford the time to cultivate some true gratitude, afford to die.
Grief is funny. I keep pulling everything back to it in my writing because it’s completely reframed how I view the world and I keep believing I’ve excavated the thing so completely its ready for display and then something else appears in the dirt. It crashes differently each holiday and birthday, each anniversary. Fear is pulled out to sea while awe rolls in. Longing followed by peace. I circle through the park on Christmas and the waves hit harder, the stone in my chest unfolds quick as light, I sit grinning on the bench stripped thankful top to bottom. Is that him? A clue? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. The sun hurts. I’m on accutane again. I can’t last long before burning. I crank Joni right as she swells to to say “I love you” right out loud and try it because, hell, it’s Christmas and all the windows feel open. Nothing changes but a passerby glances my way. I realize I am a woman talking to herself on the bench, rise, and walk the other direction.
They’re Levis. I’ve been eyeing them for around a month, waiting for them to come back in stock. I had to pay $2 for the parking garage at the Cherry Creek Shopping Center. They cost one dollar more than a clothing rental which Dave Ramsey would consider a wiser investment. I’ve also been in desperate need of a new coat, using primarily rental coats to fare the last three winters. I’ve had the money to buy both items for all the years I’ve needed them. It felt like a waste until recently. It’s dark green and claims to be made of recycled water bottles. There is a secret pocket on the inside and I can put anything inside of it.
WHAT’S UP, NEIL?
Remember Neil from What Hits? Yeah, this is Neil. NB is my brother for life. One time Neil woke up at 5am to drive me to a neck sonogram outside of the city, no questions asked. One time Neil and I were each going on a run and we passed each other on the sidewalk by happenstance and high fived and kept running like magic. One hundred times, Neil asked a single, specific question that helped me make a play make sense. If I had to boil my bro down to four words, he gives a shit. It’s evident in his writing and work ethic and how he talks and listens to you. I’m really proud of him.
1. What is something strange, cool, or funny that happened to you recently?
2. What advice would you give yourself one year ago?
Substantially better, baby. See you next time.
Lots of good stuff here but I'm going to take "poop washes out" with me