My grandmother died for a long time.

I listened to Tori Amos.

Under the Pink’s opening track, “Pretty Good Year,” probably encapsulated how I was feeling about that year, even though I didn’t know it at the time. During high school I suffered from a pelvic pain that I now think was largely imagined (though no less real) but I also stumbled into my voice thanks to LiveJournal and the Lilith Fair.

Writing, as it continues to, felt like a magical healing power.

My grandmother died, but things were “pretty good.” I dwelled in inexactitude.

I’ve probably always lived like matters of degree mattered. I remember getting a B on a high school music theory paper because of my imprecise language, but I still stand by my need to make room for some adverbs and adjectives in my voice.

The right noun or verb cannot possibly replace the impact of a well-placed “probably.”

Like, 2017 was probably harder than 1999 even though in 1999 I had to invent a physical pain to represent feelings I didn’t understand.

2017 was probably harder than the year my dad died because I’m out of money and can no longer pay off my sorrow.

Yet every time Patrick and I congratulate ourselves for making it through, he launches into a litany of things we should be grateful for. No one died. No cancer. Theo’s healthy…

“pretty good year.”

It’s probably not true that all the difficulty started with what we now call “the flood,” but it was what made me aware of the difficulty.

I mean, we were barely handling being neuroatypical new parents in Trump’s America. I was leaning heavily into the occult. One June morning I drew the Six of Swords from my tarot deck while I was pumping (possible meaning: journey by water) and Patrick felt the damp carpet in the room where we stored all the things we were going to go through later, and suddenly that stuff was filling up almost every inch of our living space.

Theo couldn’t even learn to crawl around it.

Our shower supply line was busted. And surrounded by asbestos.

We went some ugly places. The TownPlace Suites by Marriott near the Boise Depot. Extreme consumer debt. A rental SUV in Philadelphia between asbestos abatement and actually replacing our carpet and bathroom floor.

I drew the Devil card again and again and clearly our house was the demon we didn’t know we weren’t chained to.

This is where I could craft a narrative of blame and punishment, or redemption had we decided we could be free from the house.

But we’re actually chained to the illusions of capitalism and linear time. By which I mean it’s difficult to seek justice when you’re surviving with a baby amidst piles of poems, middle school history reports, test scores, floppy disks, and other obsolete technologies that once seemed important enough to keep.

And meanwhile, I felt complicit in the white supremacist, fascist ascension

because I’m not, say, volunteering for political campaigns, or showing up to organizing meetings.

So I decided not to sell the house, or write, even though it didn’t feel like a decision. I made these spaces too precious. I tried more Adderall, some antidepressants. I worked so hard all week and faced the shame of my past all weekend.

I built muscles so tense I was a tank when faced with all feelings or desires.

I realized my dream of becoming a walking to-do list.

I didn’t need the cards to tell me what was going to happen because I always already knew.

This post is a little too narrative for my taste but I really do think I’m just trying to figure out what happened, which is what writing is for sometimes.

And I’m not in the mood to unpack “why,” but I tend to do this better with a perceived audience.

And of course I want this perceived audience to think I am good, and thoughtful, and I haven’t figured out how to be good and thoughtful and a privileged white woman writing autobiographical, personal work in 2017.

But I also don’t know how to live without writing this, so perhaps I’ll just have to settle with being pretty good.

Maybe I’ll have to cultivate enough emotional resilience to deal with being wrong or uncomfortable.

But how?

This morning, this headline on my Facebook feed caught my eye:

“How To Raise A Good Person — Instead Of One Who Is Just Afraid Of Being Bad”

Before I clicked the article, I had a feeling it would sum up what I want for Theo — how I want him to understand why he’s doing things instead of parroting what he’s told.

I want this because I was a very fearful kid.

Like now, I wanted to be good. I wanted someone to tell me how to be good and I was very good at going through the motions.

I’d repeat back words, rituals, plot summaries I didn’t understand.

It’s still hard for me to admit when I don’t know things I think I should know. (Like whether I should be writing this blog post.)

And that’s the kicker. Kids — all of us — don’t actually learn from parroting what we’re told. Theo can be trained to say “thank you,” but that doesn’t necessarily mean he correlates this language with gratitude as much as the fear of what might happen if he doesn’t say it at the socially acceptable moment.

Regurgitating the SparkNotes for the Handmaid’s Tale on the test doesn’t affect our character as much as reading the damn book.

“In the end, though, the most important thing is just to set a good example. Children copy their parents — it’s just what they do. No matter how you raise them, they’re going to end up an awful lot like you.”

Shit. So perhaps I’m in this long blog post and torturous moral quandary because I don’t trust that I’m good

because I’m actually just afraid of being bad.

And even if I want things to be different for Theo, he can smell the fear all over me.

And maybe that’s the problem with “good white people” — we’re more motivated by the fear of appearing racist or sounding like a “white feminist” or not being up on the latest progressive lingo than whatever actual good we might be capable of.

What good am I capable of if I release my fear of being not good? What would that even feel like?

I’d like to find out.

These are my notes from Ta-Nehisi Coates’ conversation with Jenna Wortham at Wordstock in Portland:

“Every human life ends badly…it’s what’s in between that matters.”

“It’s not moral conviction that moves…so how you going to live?”

I hate to admit that it was Ta-Nehisi Coates addressing a pretty white audience that made me feel like I had permission to write again, but when he talked about how all people can do is discover what they love and direct that thing towards what’s important to them I realized that, well, not writing out of a fear of being an irresponsible loudmouth amidst a diverse internet full of writers wasn’t actually helping anyone, least of all me. (Also, props to Morgan for talking me down from most of the bad feelings and worry that accompanied this realization.)

Not processing the trauma of being displaced in my own home certainly has not helped me.

Not continuing to write about becoming a mother has not helped me or my parenting.

It’s okay to admit that 2017 was a pretty shitty year and it’s okay to say that without making a list of all the things I’m grateful for.

“pretty shit year”

*

I did want this blog post to be more about Tori Amos, so I listened to Under the Pink while doing the dishes and putting in Theo’s laundry. Patrick has rightfully been a little bit afraid of all my feels lately (and he loves me), so he suggested that he take my mom and my brother to see the new Star Wars movie so I could finish writing this.

We’re all starting to catch Theo’s cold, so I had to kick my own mother out of my house with a few Ibuprofen. I can’t remember the last time I set aside sacred time for writing and I hope I never have to say this again.

It’s not that this “feels good,” or even that I “feel better,” it’s just that I feel more me. I put a half teaspoon of expensive vitamin C powder made from ground up berries in my rocks glass and poured Jim Beam left over from Ryan and Jill’s July wedding over it. I’m acknowledging my animal instead of telling her she can have nothing while telling the world (or at least the perceived audience) she has everything.

Who knows, maybe I’ll post this then go watch YouTube videos or read poems instead of proofreading this or folding Theo’s laundry.

2018 needs more unfolded laundry, poems, and typos.

It needs more of my kid peeing on his changing table and wiping it up with his shirt sleeve.

It needs less slowly dying towards a bad ending…

As if on cue, Theo woke up screaming with his first real nosebleed. I am covered in him and his blood and I really need to pee.

It’s still 2017.