"The other other other F word" or "Where the hell have you been?"

I was nine years old the first* time I said "Fuck." I was in the middle of the dusty main drag in Tombstone, AZ on a day trip to visit my grandmother. My sister Sarah, 22 months younger and four inches taller, was living up to her childhood mission to publicly humiliate me. (When I was 23ish she shouted "Your dick is showing!" while we were fighting about a styrofoam ice chest in a Las Vegas Walgreens). Back to Tombstone--whatever schtick she was pulling pushed me over the edge and the F word slipped out. I knew I had crossed a line that could not be uncrossed. I was damaged goods. A disappointment to my siblings. The black sheep of the family. Destined for a life on the streets. Or worse. Sarah told mom. Mom made me call Dad. I confessed. They conferred. I was grounded (from what, pray tell, pre-internet?!) for one day.

I was about 19 years old in my first "Gender and Media" class in college. On the first day the professor asked all the Feminists to raise their hands. Not more than a dozen out of 60 students, mostly female, raised their hands. I was not one of them. I had all sorts of gender-related-rage ("What do you MEAN I have to play Robin Hood?"; "WHY DON'T MEN TELL OTHER MEN ON THE STREET TO SMILE?"; "Where is Amelia Earhart?"). I didn't want to be associated with the unshaven, bra-burning, man-hating, ugly-shoe-wearing women who fought for the rights I had blithely taken for granted. I'm ashamed of my pre-enlightened disidentification with feminism. Turns out I'm a big Fat Feminist (FYI: Fat is the other other F word....let's just hop right over that one).

Fuck. Feminism. Fat. It has taken me 1,000 days to share the the other other other F word. It's where I've been living. Holed up. Worn out. Embarrassed. F A I L U R E. As my (also younger, also taller) sister Melissa would say, "I dropped my sandwich." What should have been a glorious finish to my productive/magical graduate school career has turned into the most difficult period of my life. All 5(!) people who follow to this blog know exactly where I've been, but for the record and the lurkers, all you need to know is that I was sick. I was so sick that I had no idea I was sick. My compass was demagnetized and "normal" and "healthy" were words I could only use to describe my internet connection. My mother drove thousands of miles between Tucson and Los Angeles to care for me for weeks at a time. She did my laundry, grocery shopping, cooked, drove me to doctors appointments, drove me to teach, and held me each of the two times I have cried about this mess (She also made me watch Larry Crowne, and I do hold that against her). Two graduation ceremonies have passed me by. I have no hood. I am not "Not That Kind of Doctor!" Yet.

My advisor once told me that "anyone who can meet deadlines can get a PhD." It's a bit more complicated than that, but she's not wrong. That's all I have to do. Write. Research. Write. Defend. Go. But when you wake up with the otherX3 F word yoked to your back it is hard to work. You know this. You've been there. I'm not special. But I am ready to move some letters around.

Failing. Flailing. Flying. 

I know I am supposed to finish because I know that I know that I know. Now I just have to make the knowing stronger than the not knowing, not writing, not working.

In order for this to work I am going to need your help. I need you to ask me for help. Maybe you're moving. I can help with a yard sale and packing. Perhaps you are very hungry when you get home from your real job. I can make a vegetarian meal and be at your door when you arrive and we can eat it together and then I can leave. I can pick you up and we can go give blood and then get fro-yo. (If you can't give blood you can drive me and I'll buy you fro-yo). I can pick you up/drop you off at LAX or the Bob Hope airport. We can volunteer at the food bank on Saturdays. We can go for a walk. You can tell me about your work/boy/girl/friend/kid/house/mind/body problems and I will listen. We can go to an Upright Citizens Brigade show. We can exchange handwritten letters. I can organize your books by color (THIS IS ONE OF MY FAVORITE THINGS--DON'T DEPRIVE ME). We can go to the beach and read. We can have a Law & Order marathon (Briscoe & Green forever!!!). We can each do our own work in the same room/cafe/park.

Put another way, I need to get out of my own way. I need short minutes to worry about doing something I am pretty darn good at, and long minutes to thrive more (is that a thing? can we make it a thing?). Thank you to those of you who have already helped in countless ways (more on that to come).

XO

*My parents will swear that I first said "fuck" when I was two years old at a Mexican restaurant. Allegedly, I was talking to the couple in the next booth and said something like "....and I just tell 'em to fuck off." My parents were mortified. They explained to me that my words were hurtful and I cried crocodile tears. Allegedly.