insist on surviving
welcome to proof of life
This edition of proof of life includes references to suicidal ideation, sexual trauma, disordered eating, climate disaster, and animal death. Please read to the extent that you’re comfortable, of course, and take good care. ♡
“This was my evidence that while my mind had been shriveling in anxiety, my heart had been busy, thankful to have been given a chance. I saw the part of me that insisted on surviving.”
― Chanel Miller, Know My Name: A Memoir
2024 nearly killed me. This is not hyperbole.
There have been days as recently as a month ago when I didn’t want to stay alive.
I don’t know how to describe my suicidal ideation other than as a buzzy, consuming sensation of sheer overwhelm that moves into my body like a storm system, condensing in my head, throat, and solar plexus like the deep crimson blob on a Doppler map.
My mind floods with variations on the thought that there’s no point in fighting to stick around when my personal circumstances are this painful, this overwhelming. When our collective circumstances are this painful, this overwhelming.
Sometimes, there aren’t obvious triggers that precipitate these storms. Other times, there are. Extreme financial stress and shitty treatment from men — especially ones at the top of institutions that continue to betray survivors — appear to be the biggest culprits.
In the aftermath, as I describe these experiences during a therapy appointment or on the phone with my mom, I hear myself say over and over, “I’m so tired.” The exhaustion I feel in those moments is beyond the physical, deeper than the emotional. Maybe “weary” is a better word? I’m not sure.
Between losing all my income twice, breaking an engagement, finalizing my divorce, and diving into a stage IV cancer caregiving role, it’s no wonder last year made me want to die.
Oh, and there was all of this bullshit, too. (I have so much more to say about this ongoing clusterfuck of an experience. Just not today.)
So anyway, it makes sense that I’m tired, doesn’t it?
I know I’m not the only survivor who’s tired of fighting to stay alive, let alone recover, in a culture that hates women and trans people* and in a country that has once again elected an adjudicated rapist as president.
We are tired of not being believed.
We are tired of being called “crazy” and “difficult” for telling the truth.
We are tired of being tokenized by self-congratulating “progressive” institutions that continue to treat us like the problem rather than thanking us for doing them a massive favor by speaking up.
We are tired of the expensive, time-consuming, and often painful work to heal from the choices others made to hurt us.
We are tired of watching our abusers continue to gain power, get promoted, get richer, and avoid any meaningful accountability.
We are so fucking tired.
The last year revealed that many of my practices and support systems — ones I’ve spent more than a decade so intentionally and methodically reinforcing to recover and protect myself — were giving out.
I had the privilege of a therapist, meds, a vitamin D supplement, spell work, decent nutrition, lovely friends, a supportive mom, the sweetest dog and cat, sunlight exposure, limited social media, and so many other science-backed tactics for creating serotonin, dopamine, oxytocin, and all the feel-good neurochemicals. And still, my old ways of operating simply could not withstand the stress test of 2024.
The gift that the last year has given me is a clear choice: am I going to keep asking for help to face all the insidious ways that misogyny and capitalism and white supremacy culture occupy my brain and cause me to abandon myself? Or am I going to die?
Choosing to stay alive this time around would mean confronting an addiction to work, seeking treatment for a nearly lifelong eating disorder, and investigating a basic lack of self-worth that even a decade of trauma recovery couldn’t uproot from my nervous system. It’s been daunting, if I’m being honest.
Thank god, though, that if there’s one thing ya girl knows how to do, it’s surrendering to the latest rock bottom and raising her hand for help over and over and over again. (I recently heard Jane Fonda say in an interview that asking for help is the true marker of a resilient person, and I wholeheartedly agree.)
Medicaid, food stamps, better meds, and yet another intensive PTSD treatment program are all part of my recovery right now. It’s all humbling. It’s all helping.
I’ve learned to accept that I’m an anticapitalist who still struggles with overworking and underearning, and I’m a feminist who still struggles with feeding myself and overfunctioning in romantic relationships with men. Meanwhile, I seem to be very skilled at helping clients and friends overcome these exact challenges. (Am I a fraud? Don’t answer that.)
Listening to Know My Name — the gorgeous memoir penned by artist, writer, and survivor Chanel Miller, originally known to the world as the “Emily Doe” sexually assaulted by Stanford student Brock Turner in 2015 — was a turning point in my most recent showdown with suicidal ideation last month. Her victim impact statement that she allowed Buzzfeed to publish anonymously in 2016 was a pivotal moment for me back then, too.
Chanel’s voice in my headphones made me feel safe, her words made me feel seen, and her story made me feel hopeful.
I was particularly struck by her chapter about the summer she spent in Rhode Island for a printmaking class. I listened as she described prioritizing her art around the court schedule, even though she was living through the excruciating, constantly retraumatizing legal process of holding her rapist accountable. Even though she was broke. Even though she felt broken.
Here, she describes a moment of clarity as she looked at her creations after the final class:
“After class I bought a fresh roll of tape. I stood on a chair, hanging them all up in my room, even though I’d be moving out soon. I made a gallery, just for myself. I had gone from a clueless river weeper to a prolific printmaker. This was my evidence that while my mind had been shriveling in anxiety, my heart had been busy, thankful to have been given a chance. I saw the part of me that insisted on surviving.”
This weekly newsletter I’m embarking on, proof of life, is my own evidence of the part of me that insists on surviving. That part got small and quiet for a while last year, and probably will again on the stormy days, but she’s still here.
With help, I’m still here.
*P.S. Trans women are women, just to be very fucking clear.
Love on Los Angeles
Donate via this mutual aid directory for displaced Black families in Altadena and Pasadena.
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