“Too Much Work Being Alive”
Free Verse Reflections on the Question of My Death
Tonight, I spoke for an hour and a half to my favorite therapist.
I have been in and out of therapy for
much of my life and she is,
by far,
the best I have encountered.
I haven’t visited with her in over a year.
She is helping me focus on
my trauma.
Tonight,
together,
we faced a harsh and bitter question:
Stay alive and face the painful, excruciating
work of living
or die
and be at peace.
In 2022, a year of unyielding grief,
I came to terms with my death.
I felt peace, for the first time,
with dying. I am done.
I have lived many lives in my 35 years.
I am finished.
I did what I set out to do.
In 2023, I have come to terms with
a new kind of understanding:
I will not be surprised if, as a trans woman,
I die an early death at the hands of someone else,
the hands of hate, wrung out,
pale fingers pock marked
with fear.
I have worked doggedly,
for many years,
on healing Johanna.
And, just when I sense I have arrived,
there is more work to be done.
This is not the work of a McDonald’s fry cook
or even a CFO of a major corporation.
This is the work of ancients,
of Atlas and Persephone and of Lot’s wife.
It is the kind of work that makes you think you will die
and then worry you will not.
For me, at this point, I have had to come to terms with something severe:
If I am to stay alive, I have very hard work ahead of me.
But, I’m ready to retire.
I’m ready to be done.
I’ve done more work than I can explain and I see no reason to remain.
And you?
You all
will have opinions and feelings,
thoughts and sensations about
whether I stay or go.
And this is indeed right and salutary.
The only thing that keeps me here is this:
Henri Nouwen was
very much alive.
His friend called him a “mess of neuroses.”
He left the prestige
of academia and world travel to
settle in with Adam, a man who could not do a thing for himself, and, through his care,
remind Adam that he was beloved.
Henri died young.
Gay and lonely.
Sick and bound up.
Says Ford, “This took an enormous emotional, spiritual and physical toll on his life and may have contributed to his early death.”
Too much work being alive.
So, like Henri, if I have to fucking do it,
I shall do it reminding people every day
how beloved they are.
Otherwise, in my mess
of addictions, shames, fears, traumas, and wounds,
I will harm the beloved of God. And my heart
cannot take that.
So, fine, fuck it.
I’ll stay alive. I’ll stay here.
I deserve fucking retirement and I’m
goddamned mad I have to stick around.
And, if Henri could do it, then so will I.
I apologize, in advance,
for the mess.
