I spent January in something of a fog, creativity far from my reach. Starting back to work after our holiday break felt like I was wading into sludge. Thankfully my day job has been entirely manageable, but the depression made it so I only had about six hours of energy a day, which I sold for my salary. (Capitalism, am I right?) I would finish my work shift and be unable to move from the couch for hours. I tapped out, watching TV and dozing in the early evening, then sleeping a solid ten hours a night. I could keep sleeping to twelve or fourteen left to my own devices.
I had an appointment with a new PCP, a very sweet woman in her 40s with lilac hair, and she tested my levels of a handful of vitamins. My results came back with a level of vitamin D so low that it was less than half of the “deficient” benchmark. She ordered me a weekly supplement, twenty-five times the daily recommended dose, to try to bring my levels up.
Despite this answer, it felt like many things in January were stacked against me. My partner went out of town for a conference, then, upon their return, an ice storm froze Portland and we were stuck inside from Sunday through the end of the week. Saturday morning, I pulled myself out from bed and made my way to a boxing class, my inadequate sneakers sliding on the ice left behind on the sidewalks.
The next week brought good news: I was offered a last-minute scholarship spot at a weekend-long writing workshop through Corporeal Writing. I attended the meet-and-greet and half of the Saturday session before a medical mishap led to my having to leave. (All is well now, thankfully!) Before I ducked out, I got in a few short paragraphs of a piece that I’m working on on my teenage queer loves, two humans that I was unable to find online for many years, something that’s intriguing me and I want to continue on. Thankfully, Corporeal Writing graciously transferred my scholarship to another workshop happening online this weekend. I’m working on this now so that I can focus on generating new material.
The last time I attended a generative literary event was Barrelhouse’s Writer Camp in 2019. A friend of mine, who has since sold her debut novel, flew in from North Carolina, and we spent a few days enjoying Pittsburgh before we headed northeast. Writer Camp was held ten miles from State College, PA, with a creek running through the camp and hammocks outside the bunk rooms. I bravely dodged spiders in the outdoor restrooms/showers and watched my friend diligently type on her laptop. I ordered scents for my candle-making business and drove to the local Wegman’s, unable to keep my eyes on my own screen. The Barrelhouse editor I was assigned to, the lovely Lilly Dancyger, reviewed the essay I had submitted with my application and pointed me to places where exposition would help polish things. I eventually produced a few hundred words on the last full day, unrelated to any of the projects I had thought I would be working on. I spent months feeling embarrassed that I had wasted so much time on supply orders and grocery shopping.
I think the real problem I have with writing I gestate my words too much. I’ve spent days drafting sentences in my head for this, losing at least half of them to my neurodivergent brain. I mentally revise, agonizing over word choices, polishing and polishing, only to have sentences slip away. During the workshop, I had a great time playing with stream of consciousness writing, messy and imperfect, something I need to embrace. It makes me excited to continue writing, which is an excitement I’ve very much needed.
The week after the workshop, anniversary time crept in - one year since Vi’s death. Crying jags started the Saturday before. I attended a boxing class at a fat-owned gym that I love, then came home, laid in bed, and wept for two hours. My sweet partner rubbed my leg as I ran through half a box of tissues and cried about my lack of local friends. Vi was a lot of different friends to me, holes in my social life that I have yet to fill. She was my closest fat friend, a safe person to discuss my often ambivalent body feelings with. My aesthetics friend, always ready to talk skincare or hair colors or the full set of nails we would get at the salon she worked at. A friend who knew all my secrets, who had seen me through eight years of tumult and triumph in waves. She saw me at my worst and my best and loved me deeply. How do I start from scratch in a place that I’ll theoretically be leaving in two or three years?
Thankfully, I had thought to schedule a hair appointment and a manicure in the days leading up to the anniversary. A chance to socialize some with colorful, fun people. While my hair stylist was a fun Zoomer, she was not the most social. I did have a promising first nail appointment - and my nail artist happens to also be my boxing instructor. She gave me a beautiful set for Valentine’s Day, holographic hearts on a pinky-sheer base. We talked for hours and I learned of so many more fat-positive spaces in Portland and groups to become involved with. On that day, she was absolutely an angel sent to ease my anxiety about meeting new people.
February 7th came and we headed to the coast. I’d been wanting to go to Cannon Beach for a long time but we never managed to make it. Our previous attempt had been during the hottest day of the previous August, when everyone in Portland had the same idea - parking was impossible to find due to our late morning start and we headed back to the city, defeated. My partner suggested we try to go for the anniversary, which I had taken off from work, and they rearranged their schedule to spend the day with me.
That morning, I put on one of my favorite outfits, which happens to be what I was wearing the day she passed: a denim babydoll dress and a black and grey floral sweater, both given to me by her. It’s an outfit that I loved long before her death, and it remains in my rotation. How nice that she continues to keep me stylish.
We packed up homemade granola and a blanket in a tote bag and headed out. I played the Postal Service and the Decemberists as we wound through the forests on the scenic drive. The forecast called for rain, but the sun shone defiantly in the sky on the beach. “Let the sun shine on your face,” I wrote in Vi’s obituary, and I held my face upwards as we walked, letting the rays wash over me. I will always think the sunshine is her doing.
My heels sunk in the wet sand as we walked toward Haystack Rock. There was a large piece of wet driftwood ahead of us and we decided to walk past it. We were punished for our hubris immediately, a wave rushing in just above the tops of our boots, drenching our feet and leaving sand behind. We laughed and lamented our now-chilly toes, making our way back to a safer spot. As my partner placed our blanket on a drier piece of driftwood further back from the water, I started to tear up. I’m not usually one to have a reaction to the ocean. But in that moment, I could only think of a moment in the series finale of The Good Place from Chidi Anagonye, the show’s moral philosophy professor:
Picture a wave. In the ocean. You can see it, measure it, its height, the way the sunlight refracts when it passes through. And it's there. And you can see it, you know what it is. It's a wave.
And then it crashes in the shore and it's gone. But the water is still there. The wave was just a different way for the water to be, for a little while. You know it's one conception of death for Buddhists: the wave returns to the ocean, where it came from and where it's supposed to be.
So she’s everywhere now, you know? My partner held me as I wept, handing me tissues from the box we’d brought along. I talked about how my memories of her are fading, how I know I’m losing things about her as time goes on. Sometimes I think I’ve made up our closeness in my head, that she wouldn’t identify me as a best friend the way I do her. I know she wouldn’t want me thinking this, but it’s hard to shake.
The sun continued to shine as we walked through the small oceanside town in our soggy boots, exploring the tiny shops: a bakery where I acquired a scone and a turnover treat for later, a candle shop (not to sound arrogant, but my scent blends were better), an adorable antique shop where we admired vintage Pyrex and Fiestaware. We had a lovely little lunch and headed back to town. The morning fog had lifted and the forest landscapes were stunning in a new way.
That afternoon, I prepared some of my and Vi’s clothes to drop off before a plus-size swap scheduled for the weekend. The only available appointment for drop off happened to be that day. It felt like another way to spread her joy. I hope the swappers who ended up with her things feel the good energy from them.
I read a lot of poetry during the rest of the day. I return to a lot of the same poems by Molly Brodak and Mary Oliver. But this one, this is the one I read over and over:
The grief subsided after the anniversary itself, with me running through fewer tissues every day. I went to the plus-size clothing swap that weekend, seeing a few people I recognized from other events. The next day, my partner and I hosted some friends for the Super Bowl. I love hosting and even baked a football-shaped cake for the occasion, only my third time using the special pan. I am so thankful that my partner enjoys cooking and made the rest of our spread: queso, wedge salad, buffalo tofu, spinach dip, sliders, and pigs in a blanket, all vegetarian and mostly dairy-free. We did face masks during Usher’s performance and paid surprisingly close attention to the second half of the game for five people who did not care for either team.
Last week, I started to feel my energy come back, the vitamin D working its way into my system. I attended another boxing class. I’m slowly learning the punches and the names of other attendees. I’ve been reading more. And tomorrow, a chance to connect with other writers virtually and keep pecking away at other projects. The creativity slowly returning to the regular schedule. It feels promising.
Hopefully this will become a more consistent hello from Portland. I look forward to having something creative to show you, hopefully sooner rather than later. Thank you for being here with me.