Because Love Is

I got on here expecting to write a love note to my boyfriend. Silly, I know, but I’m so awful at being expressive that it’s truly necessary.

What’s awful, I feel like, is the familiarity.

I don’t like that’s it’s disrupted thoughts of who I love because of the guilt and despair that I can’t help but feel. My Mema, whose white lily I put lipstick on before sending it down to rest with her for eternity–or, at least, however long it takes for the bugs to eat it–would never have approved of the amount of moping I’ve done lately.

She was a very proactive woman–the sort of woman I feel my boyfriend fell in love with, though maybe not in the way he originally suspected:

He says he fell for my heart… and my ass, though I’m pretty sure he means that one figuratively. I believe him. I wouldn’t still be here if I didn’t, and it helps that most of the time I think he’s right. I think, though,

Sometimes I worry. I worry about us both forgetting what’s important to us, about

Love you. That’s it. I don’t think we forget. I think we’re sometimes slow to remember. But it’s there. And I’m not worried.

The Belle Jar

We put so much faith in our bodies, which is actually kind of funny, because they’re such sorrowfully flimsy things. A bundle of sinews and bones, a fluttering pulse, a damp, rolling eye – we’re really not made of much. We might be built from star-stuff, but we lack the sturdiness of stars, the predictability. It takes a huge gravitational collapse to kill a star; it takes tens of thousands of years for a star to die. But a human body breaks so swiftly and unexpectedly, and there are so many ways for a body to break.

A body can be broken with a spiny virus to small to be seen by the naked eye. A body can be broken by a handful of cells gone rogue, or a heartsick sadness, or a screeching collision between flesh and something hard and intractable, like concrete or metal or time. All bodies break eventually – they shatter…

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Rough meeting…

Well, I’ve officially had what feels like my first huge failure at work.

I went into a meeting knowing exactly what I needed to say, and I went in there knowing that what I had to say was in the best interest of the child. I had my convictions and the knowledge that we were only asking for this kid’s team to put her in a place where she could be successful. But what did I do?

I didn’t say a word. In fact, I stopped the advocate I was there to supervise from speaking on more than one occasion.

This particular advocate is absolutely right in her concerns, but misguided in how she approaches them–I don’t think I was necessarily wrong in wanting to do the speaking for the agency, except I didn’t fucking speak for the agency.

I feel like I have failed this child so utterly that I’m almost reassessing my presence on the case. This is the first time I’ve lost sleep over a case in the year and a half I’ve been working here. I have another opportunity, and things aren’t completely ruined, but I have got to get a stiffer spine. I can’t let my need to be civil and my hopes that people will work towards logical conclusions out on their own prevent me from speaking when I know I need to. I’m sick over how that meeting played out, to the point where I’m dreading going to my book club tonight because I know they’ll ask me how work is going, and I’m afraid I’ll burst into humiliated, angry, and guilty tears.

I’ll admit that part of my issue was not wanting to talk about the kid’s limited capabilities in front of her, but even that is wildly misguided. She knows her functioning is limited, it’s not like this is some big secret to her. My whole job is to help my advocates stand up for what is in the best interests of the child, and I failed at that.

I have to do better.

Why I Lose My Mind Every Time We Have the Name Conversation

This post really grabbed my attention, because as a feminist-in-progress, the name thing is something that I know I’ll get the most push-back on. I waver back and forth: “It’s just a name, but it’s MY name, but does ANY name really define me?” And it was something that I really just left at that, focusing more on crimes against women and other patriarchal relics, until back in March when my boyfriend, who is a self-proclaimed feminist himself, said that he really would be offended if a woman didn’t take his name.
Now, we’ve been dating for all of seven months, so this was definitely more of an abstract conversation. But a small part of me was just crushed by that statement, and while I adore this guy, it’s something that’s been weighing on my mind since. My own views on name changes are somewhere in the vicinity of watery feminism, but to have a guy that I have so much respect for tell me that he’d be offended by a woman keeping her name? It was a little upsetting. I haven’t revisited the conversation (again, only seven months), but reading this has really helped me navigate the murky waters in my own head, so when it does come up again, maybe it’s something I can get to the bottom of.