Anguish
Sadness coupled with desperation. A seering emotional pain. I may fall into anguish at any moment thinking about the possibilities that could befall us—the country, the world—with Trump as president. I feel anguish when there is nothing to help get us out of the turmoil we are in or will be in soon. Anguish hurts. It’s hard to find a salve for anguish. Even action may not help if it doesn't produce a positive result. The fear of no result feeds anguish.
Fortunate
Something turns out well. It’s a good thing. I feel happy or satisfied about it. The sun is shining internally if not outwardly. Something fortunate can be due to hard work being rewarded, or to luck—and it often feels more dependent on luck or accident. It can feel fortunate to know someone who can help me with a problem, help me get out of a bad spot, help me find a job or a new place to live. Maybe I’ll be cranky if that person I’m fortunate to know doesn’t help, or can’t help.
Cranky
Irritation made verbal. Snapping at someone who pushes my buttons out of proportion to what they’ve said. Maybe I’m cranky for no good reason, maybe I didn’t get enough sleep or I fell out of bed in the middle of the night or I put on my sweater inside out. Crankiness has a tinge of arbitrariness, of the trivial. I have to justify my crankiness by claiming I’m cranky because of something serious.
Apprehension is fear about what will come. I am apprehensive about the future of the country and the world. I don’t know what will happen, and I have no control over what the government will try to do, though I can protest and engage in activism against what I think is wrong. But waiting to learn what actions I will have to protest leads to apprehension as I fear the worst. Apprehension lurks in the background, feeding bad dreams. Apprehension tightens in the neck.
Self-conscious
(At the beginning of November, I selected one word for each of the first ten days of the month for NaNoWriMo. I did not think about what day each date was. I did not write this on Day 7. I didn’t write it until Day 11. I will try to catch up over the next few days.)
Are people Looking at me? What do they think of me? Why do they think that? What can I do to change what they think of me? Can I do anything? Do they think I’m ugly? Do they think I’m a snob? Do they think I smell? Do they think I’m a know-it-all? Why don’t I have any friends? Would I have friends if I didn’t wear glasses? When I give my speech I add tomorrow, will I fart? Will my Kotex pad leak? Will I lose my voice, or start coughing because my throat is too dry?
Or can being self-conscious ever be positive? Can I be conscious of myself as a positive force for others? Am I being self-conscious when I think of linking people together? Why does self-consciousness always seem to be a fear of what others think or see in me? Wouldn’t that be “other-consciousness”?
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It’s NaNoWriMo Day 7. I will be writing about feelings, because that is what I have the hardest time articulating. One feeling a day.
Sorrow
(At the beginning of November, I selected one word for each of the first ten days of the month for NaNoWriMo. I did not think about what day each date was, I did not consider that day 6 of November was the day after Election Day. So the fact that sorrow” is the word for the day after Election Day? What did my unconscious know that my consciousness didn’t? Was some MAGA-Trump mind sending out signals? Or was this just the sort of coincidence that mathematicians say happens all the time? I’ll go with the latter. Just to add, I did not write this on Day 6. I didn’t write it until Day 11. I will try to catch up over the next few days.)
Sorrow and depression have much in common. A feeling of hopelessness. Wanting to cry, often. Feeling something is gone that shouldn’t be gone. Crying, again. Some people wail and sob aloud, beat their breast, rend their clothes—some religions even include these actions in their mourning rituals. Others curl into themselves, close up, don’t speak, shut the door. There is no right or wrong way to be sad. It is okay to be sad. There can be reasons to feel sad, and no one can say when sorrow is over. Sometimes it never is.
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It’s NaNoWriMo Day 6. I will be writing about feelings, because that is what I have the hardest time articulating. One feeling a day.
Regret
(At the beginning of November, I selected one word for each of the first ten days of the month for NaNoWriMo. I did not think about what day each date was, I did not consider that day 5 of November was Election Day. So the fact that “regret” is the word for Election Day? What did my unconscious know that my consciousness didn’t? Was some MAGA-Trump mind sending out signals? Or was this just the sort of coincidence that mathematicians say happens all the time? I’ll go with the latter. Just to add, I did not write this on Day 5. I didn’t write it until Day 11. I will try to catch up over the next few days.)
Regret replays actions, or more often inactions, hoping in vain for a different result. Regret saps strength, it keeps me awake at night. It keeps the focus on the past, what wasn’t done, what should have been done, what should have been done differently. It distracts from the future, what can still be done.
Why didn’t I say that? Why did I say this? Should I have gone to Pennsylvania to canvas voters? Should I have written more postcards? How many more of us should have canvassed, sent postcards, made phone calls? Would all of us have made the difference?
But it didn’t happen. We didn’t do the things we now regret not having done. What if we had done them and he still had won? I would not have felt regret then, I would have felt more entitled to feel anger at the people who didn’t vote.
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It’s NaNoWriMo Day 5. I will be writing about feelings, because that is what I have the hardest time articulating. One feeling a day.
Distant
Is “distant” really a feeling? Or is it a way to avoid feeling? I’ve often said that writing lets me get those feelings that bedevil or confuse me out of my head so I can make more sense of them. But am I also distancing myself from those feelings? Perhaps I'm being too hard on myself. If I can only identify my feelings by writing them down, isn’t making them somewhat distant a good thing for me?
Distant is safer. Distant is useful. Distant is hiding. Distant is camouflage. Distant is protective. Distant is observant. Distant is watchful. Distant is spying on myself.
It’s NaNoWriMo Day 4. I will be writing about feelings, because that is what I have the hardest time articulating. One feeling a day.
Aggravated
Was I merely aggravated when the laundry card didn’t work in one machine this evening? Or was I angry? What’s the difference? I yelled after the card gave me an error message when it worked in two other machines; I yelled, “Fuck!” That feels more like anger than aggravation. Aggravation is irritable, stronger than frustration, not as strong as anger. Anger is fire red; aggravation is a sickly maroon; frustration is a brownish green. Aggravation gnaws, it lingers, itching intermittently in hard to reach places. Aggravation kvetches, it complains in low tones repeatedly. Aggravation wants you to know there’s something wrong, you’d better fix it or else.
It’s NaNoWriMo Day 3. I will be writing about feelings,
because that is what I have the hardest time articulating. One feeling a day.
Loss, the never having again, never seeing, never hearing, never knowing, never, never, never, never, gone forever in material form, losing the connection, losing the “other.”
Grief becomes common as I age. More people slip out of life at later ages and come holes in the world. I need to learn to accept loss as inevitable, as part of life as I go on living past the lives of others.
Grief is a hollowness that never gets filled. It does not close; closure is a cliché that doesn’t warm. Grief is its own homecoming. It comes for all of us and takes different communal forms. I keep being drawn to abstraction, to reporting someone else’s experience, someone else’s feelings. The feeling inside is too chaotic. The language of closure implies a set way of feeling, a schedule to be followed. If you don’t follow the schedule you have fallen too far into grief. You have allowed grief to control you, you have lost control of your feelings, of yourself.
Death is the ultimate loss of control, “you” are no longer here, only your body, cold, motionless, stiffening. The death of someone I love, or I have known for a long time, or a member of my nuclear family is the notice that it can happen to me. Perhaps I am next in line. The moment of my death is a mystery. Another loss of control.
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It’s NaNoWriMo Day 2. I will be writing about feelings, because that is what I have the hardest time articulating. One feeling a day.
Calm
A coworker once told me that I always seemed so calm, even though I had an extremely stressful job. I was perplexed. I did not feel at all calm. I often cried in the shower before I went to work. Why didn’t that show, in my demeanor, in my behavior?
What is calm? Quietness. A sunny day. A smile or a facial expression that looks attentive. A low voice, not shouting. Relaxed limbs, hands folded loosely in the lap. Questions rather than commands.
Is this how I appeared to my coworker? Did I intend to project this image? How I looked on the outside did not match what I felt on the inside. But I wasn’t always sure what to name how I felt.
Here’s the problem I am
having cutting down the huge file recounting my seven years as copy chief at
the Village Voice. There are many stories like the one below, which feel very
characteristic of the Voice. But does anyone who wasn’t there at the time care?
If it is interesting, how many of these stories can I leave in, how few are
enough, and how do I decide which ones to keep and which to let go? If you read this, please let me know in in the comments what you think.
Early in 1985, Jack Newfield and Wayne Barrett try an end run around David Schneiderman, now acting publisher, by claiming to me late on Monday night, as we’re closing the issue, that they have an emergency item for the NYC column on local politics, implying to me that David has okayed it. Then Wayne offhandedly says that Nat Hentoff and Newfield are signing this item, but Geoffrey Stokes isn’t going along. Why? They asked him to write about it in Press Clips, but he said he wouldn’t. This rings alarm bells.
I call Stokes to ask what’s going on, and he says David begged them not to write this; it’s speculation about who might be the next Voice editor-in-chief. Stokes reports to me that David told Kit Rachlis, the managing editor, about this “item,” that it needs more verification and it can’t run in this issue. I’m now furious. Newfield and Wayne could certainly have been fired if they’d succeeded, and would have gotten me fired, too. “What assholes they are! And what a fool they must think me,” I write in my journal.
The next day, Wayne calls to yell at me at the plant because I “didn’t have the courtesy” to let him know his item was killed. Kit calls to have the item read to him and maybe it will run. But it mentions Murdoch, and Susie, production manager, asks if David has read it. Does the publisher get to read anything that mentions Murdoch? Susie says yes, Kit says no, I’m not sure. Kit now says there was a misunderstanding; he thought David said no to the item, but Newfield and Wayne say he said yes, and the story will come out in a few days anyway. I tell Kit I think he’s being used, as they tried to use me.
That evening, Stokes explains the backstory. Newfield had started a rumor that he knew who the new Voice editor-in-chief would be and it wasn’t good. He called Stokes and asked him to do an item in Press Clips. Stokes knew a Voice editor-in-chief was about to be named, it wasn’t who Newfield thought it was, but it wasn’t confirmed yet, so he couldn’t tell Newfield. Stokes called Kit about Newfield’s theory, Kit called David, and David also didn’t tell Kit that another editor is about to be named, so too many people don’t know what other people do. And I think no one cares about this story except Voice people anyway.
Getting old is hard work. We have lots more visits to doctors, physical therapists, dentists and ophthalmologists (if we can afford them). It seems to take longer to do almost everything, especially when trying to find things, like the keys when we’re getting ready to go out, or a photo I saw just the other day and now has vanished. Our glasses. Where are our glasses, and which ones do we need, the reading ones, or the ones to watch TV?
I’m now discovering that even going to bed has become work. A pain in my right hip turned out to have nothing to do with the hip joint. My physical therapist said I had a compressed tendon, the one attaching my butt to the underlying bone. How did this happen? I sit with my legs crossed ALL THE TIME. So I have to stop that.
But in addition, I have to be careful of what position I place my body when I get into bed. I’ve never been able to sleep on my back, so that won’t work. If I lie on my side, I have to put a pillow between my legs. Have you ever tried to sleep like that? I can’t relax in that position. Lying on my belly seems safest, but with my head turned either right or left so I can breathe, and a pillow under the leg with the compressed tendon. But this does not feel natural and sometimes hurts my hip, and I wake frequently, toss and turn, get tangled in the sheets. Sleeping is now work to avoid the hip pain. Will it work? We’ll see.
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It’s Slice of Life Tuesday over at Two Writing Teachers. Check out this encouraging and enthusiastic writing community and their slices of life every Tuesday. And add one of your own.
Today, I went to a nearby hospital for an x-ray of my hip. The x-rays are done on a walk-in basis, so I did not need to make an appointment. I arrived and was, I guess, logged into the computerized system at 12:20 p.m.
Here’s the e-mail I sent to the hospital about what happened next. “Almost AN HOUR LATER, I received three e-mails, one telling me to check my Mt.SinaiAccount because I had a new message, the second telling me to Prepare for my visit by completing forms online, and the third had the subject line ‘Have you arrived?’ and the following text: ‘Hello Sonia, It's almost time for your 12:20 PM appointment. Once you arrive, let the clinic know by logging in.’ The three texts said exactly the same thing.
“THIS IS RIDICULOUS. I was already there, the x-ray was done. Why is the system sending me e-mails and text AFTER the fact? Obviously, the system has to be told to NOT send these e-mails and texts for walk-in appointments. It's extremely annoying.”
I wanted to inform the hospital that something was wrong with their default e-mail and text communications. First, I went to the the hospital’s website and found a phone number for Patient Relations. A recording reported that because of “higher than usual call volume,” I should leave my name and phone number. About 15 minutes I got a call from a difference phone number.The caller was clearly in a call center, as I could hear sounds in the background. I told him what I later described in an e-mail to the Patient Relations e-mail address. The caller then started asking questions. He knew my zip code. He then asked whether I had diabetes — and his accent was so thick I did not understand him for several tries. He asked if I had pain and if I had arthritis. Then he wanted to know my Medicare number. I do not know why he needed to know that, I said several times I didn't have it with me, and he kept asking if I could get it. I began to wonder if he really was calling from the hospital and hung up the phone. I've never been asked for my Medicare number when speaking to anyone else at this hospital.
After this abortive phone call, I sent the e-mail above to the hospital’s Patient Relations office. And then I sent another e-mail to them: “If the number I called above, 212-659-8990, is not your number, your webpage needs fixing. If the number that called me, 212-601-9340, is not from your call center, then perhaps your webpage and phone number have been hacked.”
At least I didn’t give out my Medicare ID. But how did this happen?
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It’s Slice of Life Tuesday over at Two Writing Teachers. Check out this encouraging and enthusiastic writing community and their slices of life every Tuesday. And add one of your own.
My brother died almost a week ago, and I wrote this almost immediately after I learned.
Siblings
Am I sad? If not, why not?
I was an only child for a year and a half
Then this squalling creature took
My mother away from me.
The skies filled with dark clouds,
Anger turned visual.
He was a thing called a brother.
He lay on a blanket in the sun while
I held a knife-like object over his head.
Two years later came a new baby,
This one a thing called a sister.
Wasn’t I already a sister?
Why did they need another girl?
Thirteen years ago my sister was gone
Done in by her third round of breast cancer.
LIFO, Last In, First Out.
Now the brother is gone, and
I’m an only child again.
Only now I’m the matriarch.
From here on out, it’s all fiction.
Yesterday I stopped at the Shake Shack to get a chocolate milkshake and fries for my supper. No one was at the counter, so I went to one of the screens to order there. I had to give my phone number and name so they could send me a text. So I went outside to sit and wait, reading on my phone so I’d see the text when it popped up.
Instead, a young man came out with a bag and called my name. As he brought my order to where I sat, I said, “You’re a human text!” It cracked him up, and I was glad that I can still come up with a snappy comeback.
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It’s Slice of Life Tuesday over at Two Writing Teachers. Check out this encouraging and enthusiastic writing community and their slices of life every Tuesday. And add one of your own.
Back in March I had my annual mammogram. It included a sonogram since I’d had some pinchy feelings in my breasts and they are dense, so easier for mammos to miss things.
A few weeks ago I got a bill for the sonogram, which was unusual. I called the radiology center (only had to wait on hold for four minutes) and was told that Medicare had started routinely rejecting these as not medically necessary, and that I should have my doctor send Medicare a letter explaining the medical necessity, and the center would follow up. Today I called center’s customer service again (only had to wait on hold for five minutes), of course got a different representative, so I had to explain the situation twice. This representative said she would pass on the information.
Later I ran into a neighbor who said her method of fighting the insurance rejection was to try to get the name of the doctor who works for the insurance company who made the “not medically necessary” judgment and get her doctor to call that doctor. Would that really work?
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It’s Slice of Life Tuesday over at Two Writing Teachers. Check out this encouraging and enthusiastic writing community and their slices of life every Tuesday. And add one of your own.
Yesterday I was sitting alongside Riverside Park reading a book. What looked like a thin green leaf fell onto a page, and I brushed it aside. Only it wasn’t a leaf. It smeared green bird poop across the page and onto my finger. Yuck!!! I wiped off my finger and the page, continued reading for another six pages, then thought, I should go home and wash this finger. Thoroughly. Twice. And then rubbed hand sanitizer on it. I hope nothing toxic seeped into my skin in the five or so minutes before I washed it clean. Has anything like this ever happened to you?
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It’s Slice of Life Tuesday over at Two Writing Teachers. Check out this encouraging and enthusiastic writing community and their slices of life every Tuesday. And add one of your own.
Covid has struck.
It took four years, almost to the day, after lockdown,
before Covid invaded my body and settled in.
I was Covid cautious, wearing a mask outdoors,
wearing a mask indoors among strangers.
I took every booster, and none of them caused a problem.
But one night I felt so tired it was worth recording
in my journal. I thought the hit of sugar from a piece
of pie I ate late was to blame.
Next morning I had a sore throat (common symptom),
fever (common symptom), cough (common symptom),
fatigue (common symptom).
At-home Covid rapid test said “positive.”
I’ve taken multiple Covid tests over the past four years,
and this was the first positive one.
This is a positive no one wants.
My doctor said to take Paxlovid.
I need a special, kidney-friendly Paxlovid,
which was hard to find and to be delivered.
My usual pharmacy no longer carries any Paxlovid.
Eventually, I got it, started taking the two pills
twice a day.
It stopped the common Covid symptoms,
but it caused diarrhea, and loss of appetite.
I could still taste and smell, but more than two bites
of food made me feel like a stuffed goose.
I lost five pounds I don’t need to lose.
It’s been two weeks since Covid took over my body.
It wears me out, makes me want to sleep all day.
Covid doesn’t want to leave.
I keep testing positive.
I want to be positive, but not Covid positive.
Covid, begone!
A friend in my age group (post-80)
and I were commiserating yesterday about how we have no time anymore. And here
is one reason why.
(I’m having trouble writing something every day. There just doesn’t seem to be any time!)
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I’m participating in the 17th annual Slice of Life Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers. This is day 22 of the 31-day challenge. It’s not too late to make space for daily writing in a community that is encouraging, enthusiastic, and eager to read what you have to slice about. Join in!
Before I finish, a man comes and talks to the woman at the reception desk. (I guess he’s not a good boy.) He says he has a 2 p.m. appointment, and it’s not even noon yet! Does he plan to sit here for two hours, or does he hope to get whatever he needs done earlier? Two people were waiting when I arrived. Four more have come in since.
After maybe five minutes (I’ve done about half of the newspaper’s daily crossword puzzle), the woman at the reception desk calls my name and asks for my paperwork. A couple of minutes later I’m sent to Room 3. The nurse/tech is a 7.5 on inserting the needle. And I’m in and out in just half an hour. Not nearly as bad as I’d expected (an hour, two hours?).
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I’m participating in the 17th annual Slice of Life Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers. This is day 19 of the 31-day challenge. It’s not too late to make space for daily writing in a community that is encouraging, enthusiastic, and eager to read what you have to slice about. Join in!
No More Nice Girls was a feminist guerrilla theater group in the 1970s and 1980s. Perhaps Ellen Willis came up with the name at a meeting in July 1977, shortly before the lights went out all over the Northeast. I think our first action was in the early 1980s, when Reagan’s administration was cracking down on abortion rights and pornography. We wrote a skit called “Sex Cops,” with half of the group ordinary women and girls going about our lives—taking birth control, having an abortion when the birth control didn’t work, looking at porn or making porn, having sex without being married or being married having an affair—and the other half were cops arresting us for doing any of those things.
In another skit, half of us were pregnant women being forced to keep our pregnances against our will by the sex cops. For this performance, we had to put pillows under our garments so we’d look pregnant, and while it had been about 10 years at that point since I’d been pregnant, the feeling of being so was distinctly disorienting and unpleasant. I did not even want to imagine myself pregnant, willingly or unwillingly.
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I’m participating in the 17th annual Slice of Life Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers. This is day 18 of the 31-day challenge. It’s not too late to make space for daily writing in a community that is encouraging, enthusiastic, and eager to read what you have to slice about. Join in!
The subject matter of the buttons is varied: anti-censorship, pro-union, feminist, political campaigns, antiwar, and some just generally opinionated. Here are some of them.
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I’m participating in the 17th annual Slice of Life Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers. This is day 17 of the 31-day challenge. It’s not too late to make space for daily writing in a community that is encouraging, enthusiastic, and eager to read what you have to slice about. Join in!
