my adoption story


On a cold December night in 1985, two strangers lock gazes across a bar. The man is handsome; a young Freddie Mercury (plus the mustache, minus the unitard). The woman, barely old enough to be considered one, is pretending to have already grown out of her awkward teens for the sake of the bouncer. She’s wearing contacts tonight to show off her green eyes. The music’s loud. He buys her a drink. They dance. His head bobs over hers and she likes that, a luxury in her lanky life. He takes her to his dorm room. His roommate’s already gone home for Christmas break so they have the rare college luxury of privacy. She steps around piles of clothes, the wooden floor chilling her feet.  She doesn’t remember which college she’s at. I’m conceived.

I always knew I was adopted. People tell of their adoptive parents’ dramatic revelations, the ensuing identity crisis and abandonment issues. I never had any of that. As an unaware child I made other kids feel uncomfortable when they teased their younger siblings about being adopted until they cried, and through their tears I’d chime

Me too!

oblivious smile plastered to my face.

I accepted my adoption like a child accepts the fact that they have blue eyes or ten toes: unconsciously. But as I grew, so did my curiosity about where I’d come from. I already understood that questions of this nature made my parents uncomfortable, especially my mom. The day I was assigned to make a family tree for a fifth grade school project I asked my mom what my nationality was. She responded

Well, your dad’s Italian, and I’m Swedish, so that’s what you are.

I wondered who she was trying to fool. Did she think nationalities were contagious? Spend enough time around someone, and their blood becomes yours? I asked her what my real nationality was. She gave me a mumbled answer including the phrases

maybe German and

can’t really remember.

When I asked if she could find out, she vaguely told me she had papers somewhere, but that she didn’t know where they were. My child ears heard a “no” that resounded through my teens. But the wondering burned.

I became acutely aware of differences between me and my family members, looking for clues. They all have very different personalities, none of which are anything like mine. This normal variation in any family became a false breadcrumb trail for me to follow.

My mom grounded me once when I was five. I stomped to my room, took a book out, and my anger dissolved into a reading coma for the next two hours.  She never grounded me again, but grounding did work on my little sister, eliciting the more natural reaction of tears and shouts. A clue.

My gregarious sister’s free time included: Going to concerts, peacocking with her friends, dressed in sequined dresses and high heels and wigs at 13. Kissing boys behind the stage of the theater she painted sets for. Willingly being laughed at by her peers while performing on the improv team. My free time included: Reading my psychology textbook in its entirety that first sunny August day of class. Spending quiet nights crying on the phone to my math whiz friend, begging for help with pre-calc. Failing on the track team, running slow, jumping low, and remaining friendless. Lying on our hammock in the summer until my arched back ached, reading book after book on my steamy front porch.

On the way to church youth group one day, I told my mom I didn’t want to go because I didn’t like anyone there. Popularity was currency there, just like anywhere when you’re 15. She said she found all the kids there perfectly nice, so it must be a problem with me. I wondered if she was right. Years later I asked her why she made me go to something I so obviously loathed, something that made my high school career significantly more miserable. She said she figured I was lonely. Breadcrumbs.

For my mother, religion is as instinctual as breathing. So is talking. Both of these traits meant I spent a lot of time in the car after church waiting for her to stop talking to her friends, Bible nestled in the crook of her arm. For someone who readily shares so much, privacy wasn’t observed in our house. My sister and I shared a room and our bedroom door didn’t even close all the way, slatted like an immodest dressing room door. She rifled through my diaries and eavesdropped on my basement phone calls, kindling a quiet rebellion in me. I liked to imagine somebody blood-related to me would see the value of a door that closes.

Both of my parents still live less than 50 miles from where they were born and raised. I went to the same high school as my mom, and my classmates were the children of her old high school classmates, an important determiner of who I comingled with. My parents feel satisfied and fulfilled in small-town Indiana, or at least they pretend to. They have their family to bicker with, their friends to go out to eat with, and Chicago just an hour away, if they ever need to get away, which they don’t really. They don’t empathize with my desire to dangle my legs over an Irish cliff, or eat Thai food, or burn my feet in foreign sand.

I left for college at 17, and haven’t gone back but for short stints during a few summers. Instead, I traveled. I started small: working at a diner for a summer in Philadelphia, doing sleep research in Providence, tutoring dropouts in Dayton. I found a family in France to work as an AuPair for and flew across an ocean to work for those strangers. I briefly returned to the US for grad school in South Carolina, then worked a year in Spain, two in Brazil, ending up (for now) in Arizona just because. The last person in my family to see South America was my Italian grandfather, back in the 30s when he worked construction in Venezuela before coming to America and never speaking Italian again.

At 19, I became impatient. I was a sophomore in college, studying psychology and growing into myself; I was flourishing, gaining confidence. I liked to pretend I wasn’t afraid of my parents anymore. I finally asked my mom what she knew about my birthmother. Via email. She said she’d send me everything she had about her. I knew there’d have to be a future conversation with her about things that to me were obvious, filled with

of course, you’re my real mom

no, I don’t see you any differently,

but that could wait. I had a package on the way.

It was winter, and I headed from the post office to my speck of a dorm room, eager to get back to my cozy haven. I headed past my living room wall plastered with magazine pages and headed to my bed, the bottom of a bunk surrounded by a navy blue sheet that kept the light out. I called it the cave.

I opened my package there in faux privacy, fingers shaking. In it contained the answers to questions I’d had for more than a decade. I opened birthday cards from my first, fourth, seventh birthdays, drawn by my birthmother’s hand, who obviously shared my affinity for cats and doodles, as they adorned the covers. I read a letter she’d written me in 1988, should I ever want to find her. Her name is Shirley. The letter was written in pink ink, her only being in her early 20s at the time, our neat handwriting eerily similar. I pulled out a picture of her taken in the early 80s: same awkward frame as I had in high school, same green eyes, dirty blonde hair, long arms and braces.  I found another one from the early 90s, foreshadowing what I would look like a few years from then. There was even a cassette with a recording of my in-utero heartbeat. I scrounged around my dorm floor for a cassette player and listened, trying to connect the sound I was hearing with what was beating inside my own chest.

The package also contained a letter from my birth-grandmother, as loving and detailed as the one from Shirley. She had sent mementos and letters to me and my parents over the years, of which I had been clueless about until that moment. I felt relieved to finally know something about her, angry at my parents for choosing to keep these things from me, touched by the unknown people who cared about me, and overwhelmed by these revelations.

I contacted Shirley through the agency I was adopted through. She was overjoyed that I had decided to contact her, and we met on my college campus one Saturday in May. I waited on the couch in my dorm lobby, thinking and sweating. I wondered if I would even recognize her from her pictures twenty years before. When she walked through the door, that thought evaporated. It felt like watching yourself on video, unaware until you’re watching that you walk with that particular gait, or swing your arms just so, or hold your face in that neutral expression that disappears the second you look in the mirror. Corporally, she was my twin from twenty years in the future. I studied her face—same chin I’ve always hated, same steely green eyes, same dark eyebrows. Anyone would be able to tell we were related, a new idea to me.

We hugged and talked and talked some more, getting to know each other outside of letters. She had brought with her a scrapbook filled with me that she had been keeping since before I was born. I saw pictures of her pregnant with me bloating her tiny frame. I saw pictures of newborn me, ugly, fat, and pink. She had the ID bracelet I’d worn in the hospital, and pictures my parents had sent of me growing up.

Shirley also shared a letter my mom had written her when I was two. There were teardrops of gratefulness dried on the page. It was powerful to see how overjoyed my mom was to have me, her first child. After seeing that, I mostly forgave my parents for keeping their sporadic contact with my birthmom from me. I think they were just afraid to lose me.

Shirley started telling me in her soft-spoken way the story surrounding my beginning. She was in love with her high school boyfriend, John. They had been dating for a year when his missionary parents hauled him off to Papua New Guinea for his senior year of high school. They chose to put their relationship on hold until he returned. Shirley was devastated. She began drinking to forget, hanging out at a local bar with a wild new friend she’d made. They devised a contest: first person to have sex with ten guys wins. For this reason, Shirley had no idea who my birthfather was, her being both a beautiful and competitive woman. By her estimate, six guys could have potentially been my biological father.

The upside to her brief bout of promiscuity was that to keep track of her conquests, she’d written down most of their first and last names, phone numbers, and addresses. Since she had this information, the adoption agency asked her for the names of all the guys she’d had sex with between two dates, based on how far along she was in her pregnancy. The total was four, and she gave the information to them so they could write these men, telling them they had potentially impregnated a woman who wanted to give her baby up for adoption, and asking them to formally relinquish their paternal rights, should they so choose. They all chose.

Shirley also shared with me that she’d had an abortion before she got pregnant with me, and that that decision made her choose to carry me to term and give me up for adoption. I get the impression that her abortion experience is a burden that still weighs on her today. I’m grateful to my unborn older sibling for making my life a possibility in Shirley’s mind. She sacrificed a lot to have me: her parents kicked her out of her house; she had no job. She knew she’d have to be an overworked single mother or be on welfare if she kept me.

I thought her nothing but brave by the time she finished telling me her story. I couldn’t help but think if I were in her same position, that unborn child might not have been so lucky. At the least, I would have been a panic-stricken wreck. It gives me great compassion for anyone who finds herself unintentionally pregnant. She ended up being taken in by a family who worked with the adoption agency by fostering pregnant girls who needed help. She was deeply affected by their love towards one another and her, and the blessing that their big family was. She told me that experience was what made her want to have a large family one day.

When John came back from Papua New Guinea, he wouldn’t even hug Shirley hello. She was eight months pregnant with another man’s child. She thought she’d ruined everything. A year and a half later they were happily married and ended up having seven children together, my half siblings.

Shirley and I lived a few hours apart, but we continued to talk through email or by phone, meeting up when we could, continuing to get to know each other. I learned I was mostly German and Irish on her side. Some of my siblings have strawberry-blonde hair or bunches of freckles. She and I are exactly the same height and have the same rare shoe size, 10.5 narrow. I learned I’m susceptible to spider veins and that webbed digits run in my family, something I luckily dodged (the jury’s still out on the spider veins).

I’ve never thought of Shirley as a mother; more as a cool aunt or older sister, a mentor I can ask the tough things of. I appreciated her presence in my life, adding to the already great family I have. But over time, my curiosity flared up again. I knew one half of where my genes came from; what about the other half? Why did I love school, becoming the most educated person in my family, while my biological half siblings suffered through their SATs? Where did my assertiveness and ambition come from? And where did I get these big teeth?? Were they all just uniquely me, or was there another genetic breadcrumb trail to follow?

The search for my biological father began when I was in graduate school. Five years later, during the summer break between the two years of my master’s program, my curiosity culminated into me asking Shirley for all four potential birthfathers’ information, last known in 1985. She gladly gave it and agreed that if I could find current phone numbers for these now forty-somethings, she would make first contact. I accepted and set about researching, a.k.a. cyber-stalking. If you ever thought you had a scrap of privacy, think again. I easily found the current addresses, phone numbers, and birth dates of three of the potential fathers. Shirley called them to verify they were the right men, then I called them to get some further information and ask for pictures. They were all equally surprised, though remembered signing away any potential paternal rights. They were also all more or less cooperative, but I didn’t feel that any of them were the right guy.

I had a dream after talking to those three men that I met the fourth man at his cold, snowy home in Wisconsin. He was in his early twenties, the age he was when Shirley met him, and I knew immediately that he was my birthfather by the loud way he swallowed when drinking water, something I’ve always been made fun of for. He was paranoid and hiding out in his home because people were looking for him. Shirley called me later that week, saying that she had initially spelled the fourth guy’s last name wrong, and when she searched under a different spelling and called the number beside it, Todd answered.

The first time Todd called me I was sitting at the pool. Shirley had given me his number, and my heart started pounding in a horrible pre-interview way when I saw it on my phone. She had asked Todd to do a paternity test based on his, his daughter’s, and my similarly toothy smiles we’d compared on Facebook, and he’d agreed. He was the right guy. I gathered my nerve and answered the phone, and we talked for two hours. He’s the ying to Shirley’s yang. He seemed to have no qualms talking to his long-lost surprise bastard daughter.

He told me about his life. He started two construction companies after getting his degree in architecture. Getting ahold of him is difficult because of the long hours he works. He’s brash, sharing with me how he told off his son’s teacher for scolding him for wiping his nose on his shirt, which is gross but I guess sometimes necessary. He thought that he couldn’t be “the father” all those years ago when he got that letter because he remembered that Shirley was on her period when they had sex, and he thought it was impossible for her to get pregnant. First of all, TMI, and second of all, FYI, it’s possible.

He told me I’m Native American and Swedish, and that his daughter (my half sister) went to college free for it, something I wish I’d known before paying $60,000 to go to school, though it would seem like a bit of a cop-out. She was studying speech pathology, a major similar to my field in graduate school, and had aspirations to study abroad.

He also made some unbelievable and unnecessary promises, like swearing he wanted to meet me and that he’d fly me up to his home to meet his family. Years later, they still don’t know I exist. I told him the first time I talked to him that I wasn’t looking for a relationship, just to find out more about myself and where I come from, so I was only disappointed by his flakiness because I think it’s a despicable quality to have. And maybe because I see some of it in myself.

I’ve never regretted finding out this flood of information, only not having the courage to ask sooner. But maybe my nineteenth year was just the right time in my life to find everything out. Perhaps I had to become comfortable enough with myself to be able to be in the right frame of mind to find out so many new things. It wasn’t quite the shock that Harry Potter had, but it is an entire history I never knew I had, which could shake even the stablest of people from their mental foundation.

Now I know that I shouldn’t be surprised if my potential future children end up with a couple missing permanent teeth or webbed toes (…though let’s hope not). I can also rest assured that no deadly disease runs rampant on either side of my biological family, so if I die of one it will just be shit luck. I could have gone my whole life without knowing my biological background, but I feel more whole with that knowledge. Normally incredibly hard on myself, I’m now a little more patient when my bad traits rear their heads, knowing that these are inherited and shared with others, who are fighting daily with the same ugliness too. Everybody’s a little bit ugly. And a little bit beautiful. And sometimes our parents are to thank, and sometimes we are, and sometimes something else entirely is.

Growing up, I wondered all kinds of things about where I came from, and to have my bountiful questions answered is more than many adoptees can hope for. Having studied psychology, I couldn’t help but weigh the old question of which was more of an influence on me: nature or nurture? And the answer, as always, is both. Though an astounding amount of my personality traits, both positive and negative, are visible in my biological parents, how they’ve been cultured has everything to do with the years of care and guidance my adoptive parents have given me. And what I choose to make of it all has everything to do with me.


fresh face, decomposing bodies

The week of my one-year jaw surgery anniversary, let’s be done with this face transformation saga. Here’s my face, 11 months after my bilateral sagittal split osteotomy. (I’m on the right, for anyone who reads this but doesn’t know me personally.)


So, I’m fixed. The face has healed with minimal post-surgical irritation, and I’ve now gotten the hardware removed from the elbow I broke last December, so that’s that.

Onto the next adventure: cadavers. I recently started studying crime scene investigation, with the hopes of either working in death investigation or questioned document analysis. If I go into the latter my MA in linguistics isn’t useless after all, right? Right??

One of the classes I’m taking is aptly called Death Investigation, and my professor gave us the opportunity to view an autopsy. This is something I’ve always wanted to do, but when I pictured it I imagined being behind glass in a student observation bay or something, watching from afar and avoiding all the SMELLS.


So came the day of the autopsy, and I was geeked. I wavered over what to wear, opting for my coveted hospital scrubs (that I still wear to take care of children nightly; little do they know there was DEAD PERSON BLOOD on them and that my washing machine is not all that effective).

I was told to enter through the garage off the back parking lot, which right off the bat sounds sketch. It was a funeral home that looked more like a warehouse. I texted my professor, and he sent a technician lackey out to retrieve me. I walked through the garage, opened a door, and there was a 300-lb woman, completely flayed open, neck skin inside-out and covering her face, 18 inches from me. The smell was like rotting refrigerated meat. It doesn’t matter how cold you make it in there, that smell does not come out of your nostrils for hours.

I scooted past the fatflap-covered head and quickly donned a flimsy plastic apron and shoe coverings while whispering to the previously-mentioned technician, because apparently my professor, the one performing the autopsy, is rather picky and crabby and could not be disturbed. He didn’t say a word to me the two hours I was there. I was still getting used to the smell and to staring at the body. Her arm was hanging off the table looking like a regular arm, but all of her internal organs were sliding all over the table and her legs had been haphazardly sewn up with twine post-mortem after her long bones were harvested.

My knees got weak, which greatly disappointed me, and I told myself that I would not sit down under any circumstances, unlike the other student from my class who did immediately after walking into the room, then made the excuse that it was just because “her feet were tired.”

There was another doctor working on the body, who I assume was some sort of protege/medical resident or something. He was a few years older than me, and I liked imagining him as a semi-scary tattoo artist before he started cutting bodies up for a living. He had two full sleeves and wore a black butcher’s apron, as seen in Hostel. I pulled on a mask to prevent myself from inhaling any bone bits as I watched him bone saw this woman’s skull, pry it off with a crowbar, and remove her brain with a few flicks of the scalpel. He then pulled her face forward with a snapping noise, letting it rest against her neck, and cut the brain into slices. It cut like butter. He, unlike my professor, didn’t wear any arm coverings or a mask, so his arms were covered in blood and body bits. Then he partially sewed up his barn door cut and started vaping. The smoke smelled like watermelon and was a welcome relief from the stench of rotting meat, though they didn’t go particularly well together.

The next body rolled out had succumbed to cancer and couldn’t have weighed more than 80 pounds. Her head was stuck awkwardly to the left due to rigor mortis, eyes open, staring at me with milky, flat corneas. The same medical resident/body butcher broke the rigor mortis with a snap and started making the Y-incision. The only difference with this body was that it wasn’t fresh; a greenish-blue tinge covered her entire abdomen, and when that was opened up, the meager fat was iridescent green. The smell that came out of that cut made one of the employees reel back and take a little walk around the room, stating she was “freaking out.” She went to wipe off her shoes from the last autopsy, when she had gotten blood on them and could now feel it in her socks. They removed two extremely large tumors from this tiny woman’s body, which were then photographed in great detail, and that was the end of that.

At first, I truly felt mildly traumatized by what I had experienced. The sense memory was so vivid. I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to experience that again. It seemed so messy, unorganized, and the potential for contamination seemed inevitable. I could go the rest of my life without smelling that again. But now that some time has passed and I’ve had some time to process, I’m not so sure I wouldn’t want to do that again, or at least work around that in some capacity. There’s nothing better for the curious than to solve a mystery, which is what death investigation is all about.

So here I am, 31, starting my 20th year of school. Despite my eye-opening autopsy experience, classes have been fulfilling. I’m learning how to do all kinds of testing and microscoping and analyzing. I get to make lab friends with teenagers. I get to watch Forensic Files and get class credit for it. I get to learn how to commit murder and get away with it.


The big D; a poem

My boyfriend says I drink too much

that I complain, that I’m mean,

that I tease too hard;

that we’re stagnant lately.

We, not I, because I

have been stagnant far longer.

A fetid pool of a dead-

end job

screaming children, melted brain, eyes

glazed-over with a Klonopin shine.


He says I’m not supposed to call my crazy pills

my crazy pills

but they feel like they are

and I like the honesty of that.

Anything that makes you feel (even a little, sometimes) less crazy

you should be allowed to call whatever the hell you want.


He thinks I’m reckless

that boozy night-time desert bike rides and climbs

and falls

are unattractive.

Well I’m not trying to be sexy

I’m trying to excite

myself by pretending my life feels different than it is.

Blinders on.

Blinders off, and I have bloodied knees   broken bones   a hangover

as souvenirs.

I suppose it’s also a form of self-punishment,


away my failures

but they multiply


And I hide for fear of judgment

and there is judgment

because I’ve done it.


So people spout big ideas–

so much privilege

so full of opportunity

it’s all a matter of perspective.


Tell me, exactly,

how does one change one’s perspective?

Asking for an enemy.

Providence, Rhode Island, 2008. (no names have been changed in the retelling of this birthday)

It started with stirrup pants. I was at a local bar/restaurant hangout, Spats, and Evan walked in, completing the gaggle of Brown students who were a part of my newly finished summer apprenticeship.


“Evan, look, I bought stirrup pants,” I say, wiggling a leg, even prouder of them with a birthday gin and tonic in me.


He rolls his eyes.


“Just when I thought you couldn’t get any more emo,” he teases.  His constant joke.  He’s the emo one, if we’re going to be throwing outdated high school terms at each other. Theater, neuroscience, drugs. His trifecta.


We share what could be called gossip, if we were both girls.  We’re in our own world.  He excuses himself to buy a pack of cigarettes.  I ask if he wants company, he shrugs a “sure,” so I follow.


We’re two friends with attraction between us. To what level, I don’t know, but it’s there. I used to fantasize about him during class at the beginning of the summer, wish he would sit next to me when he was the last person to arrive in the mornings. He did, once. He whispered so close to my ear it sent shivers down my spine.


But Evan had had an on-again, off-again girlfriend and had never shown any real interest, so, we were friends. Are friends.


“Let’s sit here.” He points to a table, the only table, on the edge of a sea of Brown students back for the first weekend at school.  It’s a table on the corner of the two busiest streets around the university. It’s a table on a raised platform belonging to a restaurant we’re not eating at. We sit down.


“So like I was saying, it’s lonely here. I mean, things are going alright, and I have a few friends I do things with on the weekends, but I don’t feel like I have any close friends, and that gets–“


His lips are on mine. I saw the intention in his look a split second before I heard the legs of his chair scrape the concrete, before I watched him stand, before I felt his hands on my face and his lips on my lips.  He kissed me like we were alone. Like we had been waiting all night to be alone and had finally found a few secret moments. I’d never been kissed like that in public. I’d never been kissed like that. He pulled away, his too-big brown eyes meeting mine casually, as if I’d been expecting that. As if he did that every day. He might have. I wondered if people were staring, but didn’t want to break his gaze to check.


“What was that for?” I choked out as I lit a cigarette, feigning coolness as he grabbed my hand, pulled it to his lips.


“It’s your birthday,” he murmured with a shrug. “You’re lonely.” He caught my gaze and held it. I raised my eyebrows.


“You’re pretty.” He said insistently, as if he could hear me starting to assume I was just pity kissed. I may have been.


Our conversation continued as it had before, but I couldn’t tell you what we talked about.  My mind was tangled.  After about ten minutes, ever Evan, he made his escape.


“I hate to do this, but I have to run. We’ll keep in touch.”  He sealed off his statement with another hard kiss, then scooted past people as he jumped the platform railing and jogged across the street.


*    *    *


An hour later I’m walking down Hope Street, and everything is chaos.  My friend Colleen is drunk and insistent upon texting Joe, a friend from our summer fellowship program. I had ignored the unrequited nature of our relationship, because good friends are hard to come by, and he was a good friend. Both of our phones had died, and she’d never gotten to respond to a text he’d sent her earlier, a text about me.  I’d read it quickly over her shoulder before her phone screen blackened. Nothing special; just curiosity about what I’m doing for my birthday, since I’m not answering my phone. He’s back in Philadelphia, after finishing our fellowship.


But now she won’t let it go, and Will, my coworker, and his drunken, obnoxious townie friends won’t shut up.


“We have to call Joe,” Colleen insists as she grabs my shoulders, resting her weight on me as I stumble a little on the uneven sidewalk. My black kitten heel temporarily gets jammed in a crack. I free it with a tug.


“I have to talk to Joe!” she yells in the middle of the empty street.  She’s annoying me.


“Will,” I call ahead, “Will you let Colleen use your phone to call Joe?  She won’t stop talking about it.”  I hope that will shut her up.


Will calls Joe and starts chatting amicably with him while Colleen titters in the wings, and I continue walking.  Will’s friends are still yelling, and when I listen to them, it sounds vaguely derogatory, though I’m trying to tune out all the noise and just walk. I think we’re walking to a house party for TAs and grad students, neither of which am I.


A car pulls up alongside the sidewalk I’m on, a rusty white car with the remnants of a high school sport team’s paw prints on the back.  A car I’ve ridden in many times.


“It’s Joe!” yells Colleen, and she’s hysterical as she runs to the car and tackles Joe in a bear hug, the kind that forces his 120-pound frame to pick her up.


He smiles his biggest smile, and walks over to hug me.


“Happy birthday,” he whispers in my ear.



I work at a job that allows me time to myself as I do my work. I usually spend this time watching crime documentaries, listening to scary stories, murder podcasts–basically miring myself in all things dark, but I recently took a hiatus from that to watch a different sort of entertainment.

It started with watching Youtube documentaries about quadriplegics. Sometimes I watch things like this when I feel down so I can stop feeling so goddamn sorry for myself because “people out there have it way worse”, and when I think worse, I think quadriplegia. I also watched some on Locked-In syndrome, terminal cancer, ALS, amputations, and traumatic brain injuries, which are all basically the most horrific things I can imagine. I’ve been feeling pretty woe-is-me lately, obviously.

The woe-is-me is stemming from finishing my certification in Crime Scene Investigation and doing a lot of soul-searching regarding my career, or lack thereof. It’s not merely the idea of obtaining a fulfilling job that bothers me; it’s that I truly do believe everybody’s life has purpose, and that everybody is good at something, and that everyone can do their own brand of meaningful things, and I have no idea where I can plug myself into that.

From my depressing documentaries, I was referred to a few that made this idea I’ve been stewing over even more apparent and urgent. I watched two episodes of My Last Days, a documentary series about people with terminal conditions. One featured Claire Wineland, an 18-year-old with cystic fibrosis whose life is coming to a close. She is charming, relateable, and old beyond her years. Her dream is to be a public speaker, and she’s got what it takes. With a little help and connections, that’s exactly what she started doing: traveling around the country, speaking about life and death and what fits in between. She says we have no control over when or how we will die, but we do have control over how to live our own perfect life this moment.

Another My Last Days episode was about Kat Lazo, a girl with terminal gastric cancer who relates with people so genuinely and is so present in however much life she has left. She feels deeply and shares with others, and wisdom and peace are imbued in her speech.

I then watched a documentary on Aaron Swartz, a prodigious computer programmer and founder of Reddit, who fought tirelessly to make knowledge that is stored on the internet accessible to everyone. He downloaded tons of JSTOR scientific articles and made them accessible for free, rather than the traditional system in place, where a third-party provider makes money off of academics’ and scientists’ research by charging for access. Aaron ended up committing suicide after the FBI came after him for trying to make this knowledge freely and publicly accessible. His former girlfriend is interviewed, and she says Aaron’s way of thinking was to always ask what’s the best thing I can be doing, and why am I not doing it?

After Aaron’s death, a 14-year-old boy from Boston invented a prototype for an early testing technique for pancreatic cancer using the JSTOR articles Aaron made available.

These three documentaries served to further fuel my desire to find my offering to the world, to discover my skills and how those can be used to do good, and what kind of good that may be. I’ve been tempted lately, after looking at investigation/government/people-related jobs and realizing how competitive they are and how little they pay, to throw in the towel and find some horrible, soul-sucking corporate job, where the bottom line is always to sell sell sell, and just make as much money as possible in a year and then go rogue in a cabin somewhere to recover. It’s messed up how even if you find your place, or one of many places, in this world, the realistic manifestation of that may or may not pay your bills and afford you a healthy mental space to be able to do your wonderful you-things if you’re consumed by financial burdens.

This post isn’t going to have a nice ending because I have no nice ending for these ideas I’ve been mulling over. I feel change coming on because it must. I’m becoming more and more brain-atrophied and motivation-less the longer I settle for a job that is less than fulfilling, a life that has no plans past the superficial.


the year of broken bones

I’m now five months post-jaw surgery. The entire healing process, everything from surgery on, was so different than I imagined. This surgery loomed in my head for years before I actually had it, and I worried it smooth. I had the time to worry about every little aspect of it–what if I can’t breathe when I wake up? What if I puke? What if I can never feel my face again? What if I have an adverse reaction to anesthesia? What if my pain meds make me nauseated? What if I don’t like my face? What if I still have pain? What if it causes new pain? What if I’m somehow awake during surgery? How can I possibly live on a liquid diet, when I don’t have any weight to lose?

To everyone, anyone reading this who may have this surgery in the future, I hope it’s a consolation to know that my experience wasn’t NEARLY as bad as I worried it would be. I lost about 8 pounds during my liquid diet period, which lasted about five-ish weeks. I cheated a little at the end. I did get tired of drinking all my food, but after a while it just became a monotonous reality. Food just won’t be enjoyed for a while. It will merely be tolerated. Which is livable. I didn’t blend up anything nasty, like hamburgers or chicken or eggs. I drank chocolate Ensures and fancy Bolthouse and Naked drinks for the first few weeks. The rest of the time I had the energy to blend my own smoothies. I especially liked this raspberry one I would make.

Recipe, if you’re interested:

-frozen raspberries

-tsp. espresso

-plain Greek yogurt

-almond milk

-scoop of chocolate whey protein

-vanilla extract

-2 tbsp. honey

I’d mix what seemed like right amounts of everything and blend it up. I think this was a recipe I modified from a booklet a fellow jaw surgery survivor sent me. It got me through my last two weeks of a liquid diet, because it didn’t taste like chalk.

I experienced none of my fears after surgery. No puking, no nausea, no choking. Granted, just having lower jaw surgery totally helped in the breathing category. My pain was very manageable throughout. My pain was managed so well that I had time to get annoyed over the splint I had to wear for the first three weeks. It was embarrassing to speak in public, since it made me really lispy.

Now, 5 months later, I have no pain in my jaw. My teeth are aligned, and I get my braces off next week. (I’ll do another post then to show video of me before and after everything.) I’m really looking forward to looking my age again. I can eat anything I ate before. I avoid certain foods still, like hard, raw veggies or gumballs or whatever because I still have braces, but that is what dictates my restrictions, not my jaw’s ability or lack thereof.

The only thing that’s still a work-in-progress is my numbness, which I knew to expect, but it’s still a bummer. The right half of my lower lip and chin is still 90% numb. I just started getting baby feelings in that area a few weeks ago, which was a huge relief. Feeling a tiny bit is infinitely better than feeling nothing. I still eat with a mirror at home so I can be sure I don’t have food on my face. I’m hoping my numbness will continue to dissipate as more months pass.

Now, onto my latest woe. In December I regrettable climbed up a building wall like Spiderman, fell off of it, and landed on back, with my left elbow underneath me. My arm looked kind of funky and hurt like hell, but I’ve fallen off the monkey bars and stuff when I was younger and hurt my elbow similarly, only to have it feeling better within a few days, so I went to bed. The next day the pain was so stabbing when I moved it that I felt nauseated,  so I went to the emergency room and found out I had broken clean through my olecranon, the upper portion of my ulna. So basically, my elbow. It hadn’t shattered, but I needed surgery that I had to wait a week for. That week was not fun.


During surgery, my sexy orthopedic surgeon put some metal in my elbow. He described it as “a plate and some screws”. I was in so much pain and just wanted my arm back to it’s straight self that I went under not really knowing much more than that. I was anticipating some bruising, and a like two-inch incision. When I uncovered my arm again a few days after surgery, it looked like this:


Absolutely horrifying. I felt like a zombie. Every shower was a terrifying new time of discovery. I’ve only every seen a dead body on Forensic Files look so rotted. When my physical therapist told me I had 30 staples in my arm I about passed out. So much for a two-inch incision.

I had really limited range of motion and everything hurt. I flew home for Christmas two days after surgery. I knocked myself out on two oxycodone and a dramamine. I physically couldn’t put my luggage in the overhead bin, so I kept it cramped by my feet. This was my introduction into the world of what it’s like to live without an arm. Thank God I’m right-handed.

For six weeks, things I did with one arm:

-wash my hair

-wash my body

-put on lotion

-type (became easier faster than other things)


-get dressed

-do my job etc. etc.

It’s now been seven weeks since surgery. This healing process has been incredibly painful, way worse than jaw surgery. I still can’t straighten my arm fully or bend it fully. I can feel the three milimeter-thick plate in my arm with my finger. I can’t rest my elbow on a table or desk. I can’t prop myself up to read a book. My elbow gets very tight when it’s cold. Bumping it or getting bumped into is enough to make my eyes water. Here is my most recent x-ray, taken a few days ago:


The first x-ray is older, from when I still had staples in. The second is new. I had no idea exactly how much metal was in my arm, or in what formation. Now that I can see all those criss-crossed screws in the tip of my elbow, it’s little wonder it’s so sensitive. My sexy surgeon told me most people elect to remove the metal after six month to a year of healing. Despite my incredibly high health insurance deductible, I might just have to bite the bullet and get that shit taken out, because it’s such a literal pain.

So, 2016 was a year of broken bones, pain, patience (and impatience), and recovery. I’m hoping 2017 doesn’t follow suit.

the 23 day-post-op blues

I was warned of it, and assumed it would happen immediately after surgery, with me plugged into an IV, bleeding from the mouth and unable to talk, but when I sailed through the first week and a half of healing, I thought I had gotten lucky and missed the post-op blues. Everything I had read (which had been a lot, probably bordering on obsession) said that the first three days were bad, but if you could make it through the first week after surgery, it was smooth sailing. Well here I am at a little more than three weeks after, and I’m in a slump.

The origin of the slump is probably due to two things: rate of visible healing and pain level. The first couple weeks I could see changes in my face every day. Swelling was going down, bruising was lightening up; just the incredible relief of having a surgery I’ve dreaded for years be done with was a high I rode for a while. Due to narcotics and nerve damage, my pain level was surprisingly low.

Now it feels like I’ve taken a step back. I ran out of painkillers around day 10 and started on just ibuprofen, which felt like a kick in the face at first. I’m also slowly, oh so slowly gaining feeling in my face back, and shit hurts like hell. Unfortunately, the majority of feeling is returning first inside my mouth, meaning the gums that have stitches all tied up in them. I bought some Orajel stuff to squeeze on that suture line, but it’s a constant dull throb, especially now that I’m talking more. I’ve gotten the all-ok from my surgeon, and nothing looks infected (I got a good peek at the stitches tonight and nearly fainted); it just hurts. My surgeon also took out my splint (yay) but gave me some mighty powerful elastics to wear instead (boo). They’re rubbing on my gums and making my teeth sore.

Only being half-done with my liquid diet is also a disheartening and monotonous thought.

I went back to work last night for the first time after surgery. In preparation, the night previous I watched Me Before You and cried and cried and threw myself a pity party. I’ve got to face it–my body is ready to go back to work. I’ve been out shopping WAY too much in the last week, which is how I know. But my mind isn’t there yet. Considering how I feel about my job, that’s not too surprising, but, I mean, I was REALLY dreading returning.

One good thing in this post of bad is that I haven’t been losing too much weight. Being 5’10” and 127ish pounds normally, I was worried that I would turn into Jack Skellington on a liquid diet. But, I got the chance to weigh myself the other day and I’m only down to 121 pounds, which is about half of what I had expected I’d lose.

To wrap up, things just feel glummy and gloomy right now. I’m going to leave you with some progress pictures and one I snuck at the surgeon’s office of my mouth x-ray three days post-op that made me queasy.


picture progression: from braces to jaw surgery

I guess I should take a step back here and share some pictures of the journey my mouth has been on in the last year.

My dental fiasco didn’t start last October, actually. It started when I was 11 and I was told I needed braces. I got an expander (and then another) at 13 and braces on at 14. I got them off the summer before I turned 17, open bite and all. I made the terrible decision at 26 to stop wearing my retainers and see what happened and BAD THINGS HAPPENED. I jammed my top retainer back on, but it was never to fit very well again. The bottom was a lost cause. So that’s where these pictures are starting out, from day 1 of getting braces for the second time on October 21st, 2015, until right before the mandibular osteotomy/genioplasty in September of 2016.

Day 1, October 21st, 2015

These pictures are in time-order. I would take pictures every time I had an orthodontist appointment (every 4-12 weeks). In these four pictures I had bite turbos on my back molars in order to allow my cross bite to be corrected with elastics. This was not a good time for talking or eating.

Bite turbos out, yay! Things are coming together. These were my last four appointments before surgery, and with the Damon system of braces (which I have) your wires get thicker and thicker which each appointment, so my mouth was getting its shit together fast. During the time the last two pictures were taken was the first time I could touch my front top teeth to my front bottom teeth in 16 years. That really was a special moment and a huge relief.

My previous couple posts depict the uglier side of recovery, so here’s one taken on day 16 post-surgery to shine a little ray of hope into all this metal and misery. I can only mean mug right now and pretend like I’m trying to be sexy because of this goddamn occlusal splint, bane of my being, torturer of my soul. I get it taken out in two hours, giddy-up!


Green bruises and all.

12 days post-op

Have I mentioned how annoying this splint is? It’s like a retainer times 10 and makes it difficult to speak and eat. I negotiated with my surgeon when I last saw him on Monday to take my splint out a week and a half early, and he conceded, so that’s something to look forward to. I feel bad for anyone who has to have this thing in for the whole six weeks.

I thought I’d upload some pictures commemorating my first non-doctor’s appointment outing since surgery. I went out to a bar to play trivia with my boyfriend, and drove my car for the first time since surgery too. My mouth is open because because it’s still difficult and awkward-looking to close it fully because of the splint. Don’t be fooled by my mad makeup skillz–I still have green and purple bruises along the sides of my face and neck.


I stopped taking hydrocodone this week and my mind feels so much clearer. I have more intense jaw owies and twinges, but nothing so bad I wish I was back on narcotics. I’m still sleeping a lot, but have been trying to get out in the sun at least a little bit every day.

Tonight I was feeling really sick of cold protein shakes for dinner, so I bought some broccoli cheddar soup and orzo pasta. I combined them to make the soup a little bit more substantial, and have been swallowing the mixture whole, and it’s making my night. This is way better than when I tried to put macaroni and cheese in the blender (pretty gross, but I did it twice out of desperation). I have a feeling my surgeon’s going to find some icky pickles when he removes this splint next week.

Other than that, I’m still swollen, though a lot of that has dissipated. I’m still not chewing, though I have nightmares that I catch myself doing it on accident. The left side of my jaw and chin hurt a little where the screws are, and I’m also gaining feeling back faster on that side. My bottom lip down to where my neck starts (plus some cheek out to each side) is all still completely numb. I’m still scared to look at my stitches or explore too much in my mouth. I’m still sleeping with my  head elevated and putting hot compresses on my face to help get rid of the bruising. I still drool and have food on my face unbeknownst to me. It still kind of hurts to yawn or cough. But time is passing, and I feel so relieved to be through the worst of it.

9 days post-op, featuring The Bruise

I’d like to introduce my new friend, The Bruise. All the black and blue bruising I initially had in my face has now migrated down my neck, mainly on my left side. It’s turned into an enormous green bruise, not unlike what it might look like if someone tried to strangle me. My boyfriend and I feel aware of it going out in public, knowing it’s clearly visible and wondering if people suspect him, rather than the surgeon, of being the culpable party.


Left: The Bruise. The picture on the right was taken on day eight post-op. That’s my attempt at a close-lipped smile. I still have some work to do. But my swelling is going down.

There have been some surprising aspects of my recovery that I hadn’t expected. I have experienced close to no nausea, despite being prone to it in life in general. I think the Scop patch must be a miracle-worker. Either that or I’ve been taking aspirin under the guise of hydrocodone this whole time.

I’ve also been surprised by how much I can open my mouth. I could open it immediately after surgery because I wasn’t wired or rubberbanded shut, and the amount I can open it has been increasing as time passes. I don’t do any special jaw exercises or anything, but I can eat things (poorly) with a spoon now and easily drink out of a cup, so no more of that pathetic-looking syringe eating.

Another thing is how I can feel both aware and confused, lovely side effects of hydrocodone. I feel completely there mentally  when I’m watching Netflix, talking to my boyfriend, or texting someone, but I find myself forgetting a lot of things too. Did I tell him that or was it a dream? What am I looking for again? What was I excited to have for dinner? Why did I come back into the house? Have I listened to this part of the podcast already? It’s an early taste of senility.

Related to that, I haven’t read yet. Being an avid reader, I stockpiled books on my fireplace, ready to read for after surgery. But with my mind sort of fuzzy and lazy, I’ve preferred to watch Netflix or listen to podcasts or scary stories. I’ll probably start in on the books once I’m off narcotics.

There are a few other observations I’ve made that I don’t necessarily find surprising. I’m not surprised I tire easily trying to talk. This splint is really killing my vibe in that arena. I also keep biting my cheeks because they’re numb and swollen, so if I swipe my tongue between my molars there are raised teeth marks running along both cheeks like the joker, but inside my mouth rather than outside.

Something negative to pop up since I last wrote is that my pain level has slightly increased. I think it’s because my numb nerves are starting to heal, which is a good thing, but it’s leaving me with more feeling in the surgical sites. The left side has been especially achy, so I’ve been putting a warm compress on it, which only sort of helps.

Another negative is that my bowels are packed with poop that’s going nowhere fast. Side effect of narcotics, again. I went from never having taken a stool softener in my life to eating almost a whole bottle only to produce the most unsatisfying of rabbity turds. Sigh.

On a more serious note, my family and friends have been so caring and supportive during my recovery. I’ve received several care packages, cards, and texts wondering how I’m  doing. I’ve been particularly touched by how selfless my birthmom has been, volunteering to fly out here and help me during and after surgery, and how kind a couple of my coworkers have been, checking up on me, offering to bring me groceries, and suggesting movies to watch, though we’re not especially close. Having people I know simply remember I had surgery and acknowledge that I might be having a hard time goes a long way in keeping my spirits high while I bumble around my apartment alone.

I’ve gotten into the habit of sitting on my second-story porch at around 3am and watching documentaries. The other night I decided to do just that, but to pamper myself a little and use a Korean-style face mask with a cat on it that my boyfriend’s mom had given me. I ended up looking like leatherface.


I laughed fucking hard for a sec, then put my icepacks on my face, tied onto my head using a canga (a Brazilian piece of cloth towel thing), Grey Gardens-style. While sitting out there, I thought about how terrified I would be to be walking down the sidewalk back from the club on a Friday night and look up to see THAT silently staring down at me.



jaw surgery–three days after

I’ve made it to the other side and it feels so good. So much time that used to be clogged with worry over this surgery has now been freed up in my  mind that I don’t even know what to do with the extra energy.

I’ve made little comments  in a journal along the way, hoping to be able to relay some helpful information to those who may be undergoing a similar procedure in the future and are also freaking out. Reading others’ blogs was my number one source of information and comfort in the time leading up to surgery, and no doubt they will continue to help and encourage me in the future.

Day 0 was full of new experiences, since I had never been in a hospital as a patient before (even though I work in one), let alone for surgery. I arrived at 5:30am for surgery at 7:30am. The nurses, anesthesiologist, and doctor were all so comforting and caring as I was being prepped for surgery . I was really grateful for that. I got some great hospital socks out of the ordeal, too.

I tried to keep my mind off of it as best I could; after waiting so long for this much-anticipated surgery, the few minutes before going in felt surreal. Apparently I was supposed to have been given Versed before entering the operating room, but someone messed up somewhere along the line and I was totally cognizant as I was flipped over onto the metal operating table. There were so many people in there, including my doctor with a suspicious-looking toolbox that probably contained horrible things like bone saws and scalpels. The room looked like a morgue, but by the time I was thinking that I was already waking up in recovery, with a tight, itchy layer of Coband wrapped around my head.

My time in the hospital was actually pretty good. I’m sure having a pain pump full of Dilaudid helped. My birthmom stayed with me through surgery and my boyfriend stopped by, and I was able to talk (mostly) intelligibly with both. I had very little pain in my face, but I was exhausted, and I still am. I was able to drink water, apple juice, Ensure, and some cream of wheat through a syringe, also a better experience than I was expecting. It’s slopping and cumbersome, but possible with a little bit of patience. I was numb inside and outside the lower half of my face. I didn’t throw up after surgery, and haven’t really felt nauseated either. The IV in my elbow and splint my surgeon put in my mouth  bothered me more than the surgical sites. Another thing that bothered me was that anytime I’d drink something or try to talk, my mouth bled. I went through a box and a half of Kleenex that day. My throat hurt from being intubated. I’d still say the first day my pain was around a 2.

Items that helped me out in the hospital:

facial wipes

iPod, headphones


Arnica salve for stretched and cracked lips

free-standing mirror to allow the use of two hands while drinking out of syringe

glasses and glasses case


face lotion

face mist (mine is bougie and scented, but it could just be a bottle that mists water–very refreshing when you’re feeling hospital icky)


I brought some other stuff, including a change of clothes and a notebook, but I didn’t end up using anything other than what I’ve listed.

Day 0


Come at me, boys.


The next day, day 1 after surgery, all of the anesthetic had worn off, so I could feel my tongue and the inside of my mouth again, which is great for eating, but not so great for pain level. My pain went up to a 4 and I had slight nausea. My swelling had increased dramatically.  I got to leave the hospital that day, and it felt so good to take a shower and move around my house unencumbered by an IV pole or pulse oximeter.

I was prescribed Ibuprofen and Hydrocodone for pain, Scop patches and Promethazine for nausea, and steroids and antibiotics for swelling and healing. I got behind on my meds yesterday after sleeping through the alarms I set to take them, and my pain level got to a 5-6. I got better about managing my meds after that, so it’s back down to 3-4. My lower face is mostly just incredibly uncomfortable. The skin on my cheeks and chin is swelled so much it’s shiny, and I have intense bruising around my mouth and on my neck, which is a lovely shade of purplish blue right now.

Day 3

Tomorrow is my first post-op appointment with my surgeon, which should just be a quick check-up. I’m dying to get this splint out, but won’t for another few weeks. It’s a food trap and makes it hard to talk. I think things will vastly improve after that. I can’t imagine going back to work with this thing in my mouth.

I’ve been sleeping a ton since getting home, and I keep dreaming I’m chewing food. Last time it was a hot dog fresh off the grill. The dreams stem not so much from food cravings as from the fear I’ll mess my new face up. I’m not wired or rubberbanded shut, which kind of freaks me out. At this point, I don’t like exploring with my tongue in my mouth very much. It’s like a Martian landscape that used to be Earth, and it will take some getting used to.





jaw surgery–before

In two days I will have a Mandibular Bilateral Sagittal Split Osteotomy and Genioplasty Advancement. In other words, jaw surgery. When I originally found out I would need this surgery three years ago, the orthodontist thought I would also have to have my top jaw surgically corrected and possibly segmented into three pieces to widen my bite. Thank God my orthodontist here is a miracle-worker and has resolved my open bite and cross bite without surgical intervention. So the problems I have left are my lower jaw and chin.

HOW: The surgeon will make two diagonal cuts through my jaw on both sides in order to pull it forward 12 millimeters and screw it in place. That may not sound like a lot, but it is when you’re dealing with facial proportions and jaw placement. Secondly, he’ll cut through the tip of my chin and move that forward too, screwing it in place to give my face better proportion after the movement of my lower jaw.


The places marked in red will be cut and moved.

WHY: I’ve addressed this in previous posts, but I’ve had a cross bite, open bite, and significant overbite since puberty (for about 17 years now). I had two expanders and braces as a high schooler, but none of my bite issues were corrected. At first, just the open bite bothered me, but I was pain-free. As time passed, I started having increased muscle tension and discomfort, especially on the left side of my jaw and down my neck. I also chew farther back on my teeth than I should, meaning my molars are wearing down faster than they should. My open bite and overbite also affect how I speak, giving me a little lisp and making me thrust my jaw forward to enunciate, which is exhausting, especially when I’m teaching linguistics, when accuracy and being able to talk at length is vital.

I’m adding some before pictures to show some of the issues I’ve mentioned and to be able to compare them to after (assuming I make it).

Left to right: the day I got braces for the second time, teeth 10 months later right before surgery, profile from both sides before surgery

Did I mention I’m extremely nervous? Current list of worries:

  1. Being aware but paralyzed during surgery
  2. Throwing up after just getting my jaw broken
  3. Getting a blood clot
  4. Having to wear a splint in my mouth when I go back to work and not being able to talk
  5. Not having my jaw rubberbanded or wired shut, so my freshly-detached jaw is just flying free
  6. Waking up with an incredibly swollen, different face than I went to sleep with
  7. Having to swallow medication immediately after surgery (not a pill swallower to begin with)
  8. falling into a deep depression
  9. crying immediately after surgery and having difficulty breathing

Obviously some of these fears are more justified than others, but in my anxiety-ridden mind, they’re all equally devastating prospects. I picked up a journal I’ve dubbed my jaw journal, and on the front it says “It’s Gonna Be Okay” with inspirational quotes sprinkled throughout the pages. I thought this would be a good, uplifting exercise, focusing on positivity, but I just don’t think I’m cut out for it. Most quotes have my cross-outs or scribbles on them, like “fuck optimists” or “bullshit,” then my own version of uplifting quotes written in place of the originals. For instance,”If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant.” Seeing as I live in Phoenix, I obviously don’t agree with that pithy sentiment. I replaced it with, “It’s the same sort of cold comfort when we look up into a clear sky and see that we are mere specks in the enormous universe. Our actions here on earth contribute, no doubt, to the evolution of civilization, but in such a minor and minuscule way that there is freedom in knowing that what you do doesn’t really matter, can’t matter, in the scheme of things.” That’s from Enchanted Islands by Allison Amend, which you should read, by the way.

So I guess, in a way, my journal idea is working, just not the way this journal intended. I’ve been brainstorming ways to wrap my mind around this, deal with the fear and pain, and with not eating food for six weeks. I think good books, journaling, sunshine, and watching good shows will go a long way. Everyone says watching comedies improves your mood, but I’ve found that watching the most fucked-up things I can find (stories about kidnappings, murders, the deep web, torture, craniofacial surgery way more severe than mine, stalkers etc.) helps me put things in perspective and take my mind off my comparatively-petty problems. Whatever works, right?

So, with my fridge stocked with liquids and my credit card charged with any and all things from Target I thought might make this process more comfortable, away we go.


Like most, the new year is one of my favorite times to reflect and adjust accordingly.

Last year I resolved to keep record of all the books I read in 2015. I did that, but my competitive side started counting and thinking I should be reading more and it became stressful. I would start a book, it wouldn’t be my thing, and I would be loath to stop reading it because then I wasted days reading something I couldn’t put on my list. I started to rationalize that the 37 I did finish wasn’t a true reflection of the actual 5o or 60 books I started and read parts of, not to mention I had to find time to watch all seasons of Mad Men and Sex and the City in there somewhere, so that lack of time should be factored in somewhere, right?

This year, a friend of mine sent me a list of types of books to read, and I think this will turn out better, challenging me to read outside what I might have naturally chosen while minimizing the pressure to read quickly or get through a certain number of books. My working list is below.

  1. a book published this year (2015)–Eileen, Ottessa Moshfegh
  2. one I can finish in a day–Stargirl, Jerry Spinelli
  3. one I’ve been meaning to read–The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, Marie Kondo
  4. one recommended by a librarian or bookseller–The Snow Child, Eowyn Ivey
  5. one I should have read in school–Of Mice and Men, John Steinbeck
  6. one chosen for me–Gilead, Marilynne Robinson
  7. one banned–The Boy Who Lost His Face, Louis Sachar
  8. one previously abandoned–Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Jonathan Safran Foer
  9. one I own but never read–The Joy Luck Club, Amy Tan
  10. one that intimidates me–Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy
  11. one I’ve already read–Wanderlust, Elizabeth Eaves

If I don’t like any of these, I’m resolving now to toss it and not feel guilty. Any other recommendations welcome.

Onto a topic far less interesting and much more stressful: my teeth, an almost constant pain in my ass in recent months. I got braces again in October in anticipation of jaw surgery. The orthodontist said to expect to be ready for surgery 10-12 months after getting them on, and I sincerely hope he’s right and this shit doesn’t drag out.

Reliving the nightmare of braces as an adult is disheartening, primarily because of the pain I don’t remember feeling the first time around. My teeth have been varying levels of sore for the past three months. I got my wisdom teeth out two months ago, and am now dealing with nerve damage resulting in numbness in my lower lip and chin. That’s ever-so-slowly improving, but it’s been a frustrating process. I have rubber bands pulling my cross bite out, bite turbos keeping my jaw open to allow for that, and eight tongue tamers glued to the backs of my front teeth (google for maximum level of sympathy). The bite turbos make it hard to talk (read: lisp) and also make me grind my teeth in my sleep so hard they squeak, which is kind of scary.

I also just feel ugly. It might all be in my head, but it feels hard to be respected as a medical professional when I’m lisping my way through an explanation and looking like a weird tween. I try to bond with my older pediatric patients by asking them about their braces, and they are never having it. Throw me a bone, teens.

Overall though, it feels good to be started on this jaw-fixing journey. Getting started was an enormous obstacle, mentally and financially, and getting through the worst of this ordeal is a goal for 2016.

What other goals might an introvert troll have? The constant one, to try a little harder, give people a chance, or quickly dismiss them but put myself in a place where I can meet others. To go to uncomfortable events, to talk to strangers. To establish myself further in this place. Not to get to a place where I feel socially desperate, like I did a while back when I seriously considered trying to hang out with my dental hygienist.

Come on 2016, be good to me.

Arizona nightdwelling

I am now in Arizona, a land of continuous sun. It’s where I’ve wanted to put myself for years now, and I’m finally here.

Despite the persistent sun (to the tune of 115 degrees), I am a nightdweller. I’ve gotten a job as a sleep technologist working 12-hour overnight shifts in a hospital (cue the sound of my masters in linguistics being flushed down the toilet). Therefore, the setting and the rising of the sun are the bookends of my days. I usually go to bed at 8am and get up at 5pm. I get supremely annoyed when people are noisily going about their business at noon, and even though I have no right to tell them to shut the jizz up, I want to. Lawnmowers have become enemy number one. Children playing in the pool has become the equivalent of the upstairs neighbor playing dubstep at his shitty party at 3am.

On my days off is when I feel this most acutely. When I’m working, I can forget that it’s night. Everything is quieter and I’m at my best, but those are the only real cues that it’s nighttime. The fluorescent lights and lack of windows make me feel like it could be any time/I could be 50 feet underground/on Jupiter. Time ceases to exist except as numbers standing out in white on my computer screen. On my days off, the world is only spending time with me for a handful of hours. I’m eating breakfast while they’re eating dinner. I could easily party until 6am (if I had friends here) while they’d be dead by 2. I have to rush to get my ‘morning’ Starbucks or to get to Target before it closes. And heaven forbid I have to do anything during business hours.

Last Friday night I woke up at 8pm, horrified that it was already dark, and went to go see a movie. I caught the last showing of The Diary of a Teenage Girl and left the theater at midnight. The streets were dead, everything was closed. That’s when the waiting begins. The world here ends at midnight and leaves me to fend for myself. I went back to my mostly quiet apartment, overheard a drunken fight between shirtless men that ended, ‘give me my fucking beer back and keep steppin”, and spent the next six hours in dark silence. I read, drank, watched Netflix, read some more, drank some more. Because no one is awake there’s no one to call to catch up or hang out with. There are no runs to the grocery store or the bank. I can’t get my oil changed or wander the stacks at the library, two things I’ve been meaning to do for weeks but haven’t found the daytime hours for. I’m in an overly air-conditioned vacuum. I light candles. I feel stifled. I go outside and sweat within minutes. I look at my phone. It looks back at me. I go back inside and start the cycle over again.

Icelandic midnight sun

My time in Europe ended with a trip to Iceland, a convenient pause on the way back to the US.

In sum, Iceland felt martian. I arrived in the dead of night to the midnight sun. We drove through lava fields, great black and green mounds covering the ground.


It was only ever dusk at darkest the three days I was there. I stayed with a Chinese family who had moved there because they were in the tourism business. I fell asleep in their spare bedroom at 3am, the gray not-quite-sunlight coming through the sheer curtains.

Everything works perfectly in Iceland, much like it does in Scandinavian countries. Tourism is bringing in tons of money, and it’s obvious in the infrastructure the small fishing country has to sustain bougie tourists. Since the re-vamping of the Blue Lagoon and the free stopover offered to Icelandair flyers on their way to Europe or the US, tourism has expanded greatly in recent years. (Not only was this evident by everyone and their mom (literally) being there, and as a consequence guided trips and transportation to those trips being made so easy a three-year-old could figure it out, but a swimmingcapped Icelandic woman with fuschia lipstick confirmed this at the Blue Lagoon as I wiped the silicone ish she was handing out all over my face.)


I learned that there, lots more people than normal believe in fairies, they eat raw puffin hearts, the national beer is like 2% (learned the hard/expensive way), and Icelandic is frustratingly only hardly familiar from my days studying Old Norse.

My last day there, I sat at a nearby lake. The sun was out, the water was calm, and across the way I could see that in lieu of a beach there was only green. A derelict wooden cabin was visible on the shore. It looked like the Shire. I sat there for a long while and read.

Geneva, Budapest, Amsterdam, and reverse culture shock

I’m back in the US after nearly three years away. Will I stay? For a while, at least. Maybe forever. I have some grown-up concerns to address, like my jaw problems and my quickly-accumulating pile of student loans. It’s hard to look past those huge obstacles at this point.

Traveling has me totally burned-out and grateful. I promised to write about Geneva, Budapest, and Amsterdam, and I will here, briefly. My last trip was to Iceland, which I’ll write about next time.

I traveled to Geneva, Switzerland alone and couchsurfed for the first time there. My host was great, but I’d never do it again. The expectation to chat and wow and entertain a stranger while traveling is exhausting, even if they are cool. I got to dip into France again after six years away, which was surprisingly nice, despite bringing back memories of my traumatic au pair experience. I ate delicious pate and drank delicious coffee and got treated like shit by my waitress, so everything was just as I remembered. It felt like returning to a sort of home after ostentatious Spain. Geneva proper was lovely, opulent, and liveable, if you’re part of the 1%. I spent a nice afternoon by the lake, reading on a sunny spot of grass. My French has deteriorated embarrassingly, but I hardly needed it. I tried to use it anyway, after rehearsing whatever I wanted to say in my head first. I usually got Englished, but not in a rude way.

Budapest feels like a dark cloud. It rained almost the entire time I was there. That coupled with soviet-era buildings made for a depressing time. I mostly remember my wet shoes, always wet. I’d take sopping shoes off at night and put them back on in the morning. I started to have a very bleak outlook on life that radiated directly from my feet. On the last day there, I went to the Hungarian baths, and though my feet were wet all day again, I didn’t mind it. The sun actually came out for a couple hours and I got to luxuriate outside in a pool full of Polish people, touching my sallow skin to the feeble sun. The ruins pubs were dark, strange, dilapidated, varied, and perfect. Beware of palinka: it will put you on your ass if you’re not careful.

Everyone knows a Dutch person who incessantly brags about how great Holland is. I also grew up in a Dutch immigrant-saturated area of the US where a common saying is, ‘If you ain’t Dutch, you ain’t much,’ so I was out to prove that wrong. But Amsterdam (or Hamsterdam, my preferred name for it) really is a little inclement paradise. Even the red light district was tasteful. I ate amazing cheese, drank great, dark beer, and stayed in an ideal apartment. I only almost got ran over by bikes twice. It was expensive, but not obscenely so. I went to a sex show, and even watching a woman feed a drunk American a banana out of her vagina seemed tasteful (no pun intended). Add to that stroopwaffels and the torture museum and Amsterdam gets an A+, as much as I hate to admit it.

Now that we’re caught up to present-day minus Iceland, some thoughts on re-entry. I feel like that kid in The Flight of the Navigator minus the alien abduction. He falls down a ravine on the 4th of July and is unconscious for ten years. Don’t ask me how he stayed alive, but when he comes to, he runs home only to find that another family lives in his house, and, though it’s the same house, everything is strange and different. He’s reunited with his family, but they’re all ten years older now. I feel that kind of depressed being back. The area I’m from seems both stagnant and different. Time has passed and I no longer belong to this time and place, just this place, which isn’t the same thing at all.

In general terms, I’ve forgotten how American things work. When I arrived at the Boston airport my first day back, I ate at a restaurant and forgot how to leave a tip on a card. I thought I had to add it before they ran the card. The waitress looked at me like I was an alien. I’ve also forgotten the sequence of how to buy things with a card without a chip in it. I’ve been handing my card to the cashier a lot when I shouldn’t, or trying to insert it into the bottom of the machine. I also forgot I could run a debit card as credit. I’m not used to being able to pay for everything with a card again either; I keep on having mild bouts of anxiety over the fact that I only have $4 cash in my wallet. Dollars too–they’re all the same size. Reais and euros vary in size and color based on denomination.

It’s amazing to be able to freely make calls on my cell phone again. A sense of dread comes over me every time I have to call my loan service provider, the bank, or even a family member, thinking I’ll have to use Skype, Viber, or some other equally annoying application to use when you have a bad internet connection, something I’ve consistently for the past few years.

I drove to Holland, Michigan my first weekend back in the US and I was surprisingly stressed out about driving on I-94 after not driving for months. I find myself not driving as fast as I normally would or stopping before I have to. Car repairs, gas fill-ups, and car insurance haven’t been parts of my world in a long time. Neither has autonomy.

Libraries are a wonderful thing. To be able to get virtually any book I want to read and have that book be in English and made out of paper and ink is exciting. My Kindle has been invaluable over my years abroad, but nothing compares to feeling the heft of a real book in your hands and the sense of accomplishment you get from flipping the pages as you finish them.

Lastly, I’ve forgotten my Subway order. This is no small feat, since I love Subway, always order the same thing, and used to work there during my darkest of days. I went in the other day and forgot all my options. What’s that bread with the grain things on it called? What is that white cheese called again? I am an alien exploring this place called Subway for the very first time and I don’t know what food is; please help me, please be patient with me.

So basically, I feel like an 80-year-old freshly-escaped from a nursing home. I don’t know how to work new phones, I don’t know what movies are out, I haven’t watched American TV in a really long time. I hope as the days pass that I’ll gradually feel 70, then 60, until I’m back to my normal age, because it’s disorienting being Rip Van Winkle.

preamble to more travels; a note before continuing

My relationship with travel has of late been more hate than love. At first, it was all an adventure. Everything was new because all I knew was where I grew up. I couldn’t sleep on planes because I was too excited to land in a new place and notice all its little differences: the faces and gestures of the people when they’re hungry, worked up, or indifferent, their versions of ‘um,’ ‘huh,’ and ‘what,’ the things I could buy at the grocery store that I couldn’t in the US and vice versa.

For the past year or so, my view of travel has been changing. Trips now seem like work. I joke with my roommate the night before every trip, ‘But I don’t WANT to go to Geneva Budapest Amsterdam Iceland.’ Part of me isn’t kidding. But I have to see them, the romantic and over-inflated ideas I have of these places come to nearly-always-disappointing life.

And maybe it’s right that I feel this way now. In a week and a half, for the first time in three years, I will be leaving countries of heat, dancing, and loud, idle chatter with neighbors. I’ll be leaving bland food and parties until 8am, sun and reggaeton. Tits out on the beach, asses out on the beach. Being drowned in olive oil, wine, cachaça, and brigadeiro. Overly-safe cities, overly-dangerous cities. Fighting to get my residency documents, pick up a package, or deal with my landlord in Spanish or Portuguese.

And it’s best that I go. I’ve grown, groaned, ached and loved during my time in Brazil and Spain. That was three years of my twenties, three years in which a lot happened, both related to being abroad and not. The hard part is realizing that though you’re open to new experiences, a place can still be just not for you, and that there’s nothing wrong with that. I’ve realized I’m not a warm-culture person. I don’t like talking to strangers. I don’t like touching even those I know well. Dos besos my ass. No, I don’t want to pet your dog. No, I don’t want to hold your baby. No, I don’t want to dance samba/forro/salsa with you. I don’t want to go to language intercambios and small talk about how I like Brazil/Spain/anywhere and what I think about Obama and gun laws. I’ve long-since seen all of this in myself and I’m ready to move on.

I have Arizona on my mind. Desert, cacti, a new start, an American salary, an apartment all my own. Space to spread out. Silence to reflect. Time to read. A worthy job to put my hours toward, I hope.

All this preamble in preparation to commit my three most recent trips to virtual paper, I’d like to say soon.

Trip 1: Geneva, Switzerland

Trip 2: Budapest, Hungary

Trip 3: Amsterdam, Holland

Dublin, Barcelona, and an escalator bite

Over spring break I went to Dublin, Ireland for an easy, relaxing time away from work, which is exactly what it proved to be. Though, Dublin almost didn’t make it on my travel itinerary. I had my heart set on going to Malta and the Canary Islands, the former because of its differences from mainland Europe (did you know Maltese is the only Semetic language spoken within the EU?), and the latter because after thorough Google weather searches, the Canaries were the only place with (barely) beach-worthy weather in March, something I’ve been starved for since leaving Rio. But when it came time to book the tickets, the flight prices were astronomical for that week, so thanks to Ryanair, Dublin got bumped up to first pick.

What I liked about Dublin is what I like about the US: Generally nice people willing to help you if you need it. Touching strangers is uncommon and is apologized for if it happens. People walk with purpose down the streets. Secondhand English bookstores are aplenty and the selection is impressive. There is no lack of filling comfort food and rich, dark beer. You have no idea how much this mostly-vegetarian has been aching for a good hamburger.

I was pleasantly surprised by how brick-and-cobblestoned the streets were; it lent a quaint air to a bustling city. My overall impression was that if it weren’t for the ferocious wind and rain, I would have liked to live there myself.

One rainy afternoon my traveling companion and I took a bus an hour south to go to an aquarium we had seen advertised. The closest bus stop to the aquarium was about five blocks away, so we walked against the wind, the rain biting our faces, my umbrella flipping inside-out. We laughed when we arrived: it was for children. Spongebob stickers adorned fish tanks; 90% of the patrons were no higher than my waist. Still, we had come this far, so we paid and walked through. We wended our way around strollers and crying kids and exasperated parents, looked at a little shark, enormous, ugly fish, oceanic oddities. Aquariums always make me melancholy. What a life to be trapped in a tank.

Afterward, we went to the very much adult restaurant on top of the aquarium and sipped beer and ate brown bread while looking out over the churning ocean.

The past couple weeks have been a lesson in patience for me. While running up an escalator on my way to work a couple weeks ago, I fell hard, the escalator teeth hitting me right under my knee cap. I’ve gone through various states of crippled over the past couple weeks as I’ve slowly, oh-so-slowly been healing. No more running to catch the train, no more taking the stairs, no more running up escalators. I live on the fourth floor of a walk-up building; it now takes quite a bit longer to get up or down them than it did before. Though I can’t wait to get better to have the option to move quickly again, I can’t help but notice that taking an extra couple minutes to get somewhere instead of rushing has significantly reduced my stress level while in transit. Since ‘in transit’ is a state I’m in more often than not here, that has been something important for me to learn, and I’m grateful for it. But I still want my knee back.

Last weekend I visited Barcelona, mostly because of the weight of ‘I should do this’ rather than out pure desire to go. I’ve been told several times that I don’t travel enough within Spain, that I have to visit Barcelona before I leave, I just have to. People from home have more than once confused my home of Madrid for Barcelona, asking how I’m liking it there. So, you all win. I took a train to Barcelona.

The feel of the city is different than Madrid. It seemed quieter. The streets felt narrower. It was wonderful to see the sea again, to sit on the pier and just watch the water. I went to the erotic museum, and, glass of champagne in hand, learned about the link between scent and desire, saw a lot of paintings, carvings, and pictures that ranged from beautiful to ludicrous, and was reminded that people have been experimental, nasty perverts for millennia, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Check out silent Spanish porn from the 1920s–you won’t regret it.

My weekend in Barcelona was a nice reprieve from what have become somewhat routinized weekends in Madrid. Despite my feeling forced to go, I’m glad I had the opportunity to see the Sagrada Familia, watch the waves, and be surrounded by Catalan.

I have trips booked every other weekend from now until I leave Spain for good: Geneva, Budapest, Amsterdam, Morocco, Iceland. I booked them all in a frenzy last month after starting to anticipate returning to the US and all that entails, like debts to pay and a greater sense of permanency. I want to see all I can before I can’t.

Segovia and the doldrums of February

30 degrees Fahrenheit has a different meaning when you don’t have a car. In Chicago, it’s 30 degrees before it’s even winter and I don’t really think about it as I run from my heated house to my heated car, and drive in my heated car to my heated location. Here it’s different. It’s 30 degrees in the mornings before the sun rises as I get off the train where I work. That 15-minutes walk from the train to the high school I teach at leaves my ears throbbing and my jaw aching. I count my steps to distract me from the wind. Every outing requires the unspoken consideration of if braving the cold (the cold that’s colder than my unheated apartment) for 10 or 15 minutes is worth meeting my friends at whatever bar, or going to Spanish class, or going to yoga. I’m growing soft and full of olive oil and wine and cheese and cake, the things I feed myself when I’m feeling cold and sad. This has been my February in Madrid.

Last month I went on my most recent trip: a local one to Segovia, a small town an hour by bus from Madrid. It was January and raining icedrops. I went with someone who had studied abroad there years ago, so I put on my weird earmuffs and gloves and tottered after him as he led me to what there is to see. There’s a castle there, and an aqueduct from the 1300s. I sat on the damp lookout wall looking out over it, and tried to imagine what life was like when it was built, and the different ages and people who have moved and lived and changed things around the aqueduct while it remained unchanged.


The whole town looked more like somewhere lifted from the past than anything existing now. I’m discovering the charm of small Spanish towns. They have something all their own that neighboring countries don’t quite do the same. I liked Segovia’s stone steps and medieval feel. We ducked under an archway and out of the rain to eat sandwiches with ultra-spicy French mustard, and laughed as it gave us brain burn and made our noses run. We finished the day with whiskey shots and a sleepy bus ride home.

Next month is Spring break. I’ve been looking forward to this break ever since Christmas; it’s been for me a sign of warmth and travel to somewhere relaxing, this oasis shimmering from far off. I don’t know it if will be any of those things, but I’m excited to break up my routine. The destinations currently in the running are Malta and The Canary Islands or Madeira. I’ve got islands on my mind.

December: Lisbon, Istanbul, Athens, Santorini, and New Year’s

My first ten weeks in Madrid were spent worrying about finding an apartment, worrying about finding another apartment, making friends, starting work, filling out the necessary resident paperwork, and flopping around in Spanish. Because one of the main reasons I chose to come to Spain this year was to travel to places in Europe I didn’t get to see the first time around, the pressure began to build as soon as I felt settled.

Over the first long weekend I had from work, I went to Lisbon with the brand-new boyfriend. We took Bla Bla Car there and back. It was my first time using it, and I was initially nervous–not because I was afraid the drivers were serial killers or rapists, but because the idea of driving in a car with a stranger for six hours sounded like a true nightmare. I made myself small in the backseat and talked as little as possible. I probably looked like the killer.

Lisbon isn’t what I thought it would be. I imagined this ideal city, a romantic one in which the people speak not only a language I speak, but one I love, and who are more melancholy than the average Brazilian. A place I’d want to live forever, if only I had the opportunity. In reality, I hardly got to speak Portuguese because everybody there assumes no tourist knows it, and also because they’re all rock stars at English. I tried to force it anyway, which more often than not just made the exchange awkward and probably a great study in code-switching. I found the melancholy stereotype pretty accurate, which was refreshing after so many years in close-talking, loud-speaking, hand-flinging countries. Lisbon looks a lot more like Brazil than I thought it would. I assumed the run-down colonial buildings in Rio were a product of a lack of money or care to maintain them, which does lend a feeling of derelict romanticism, but the buildings in Lisbon look much the same. I felt like I was back in Brazil, which was not a feeling I was expecting to have. What stands out to me about Lisbon is that although it’s certainly a whimsical place full of grand things, the city feels abandoned once dark falls. It’s eerie how hard it is to find a substantial cluster of people after 8pm. The streets feel dark and lonely and almost dangerous in their emptiness.


Two weeks later my Christmas break started, and a few days later I headed to Istanbul with my roommate and her sister.

Istanbul is a magical place set in the past. I stayed in Sultanahmet, which is where the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque reside. Men sold ornate lamps and silk scarves in the Grand Bazaar, beginning each potential sell with “Yes, please.” “Yes, please, come inside.” “Yes, please, give me your money.” Never before have I been to a country where I didn’t speak the language at least a little bit, and considering something as simple as “thank you” in Turkish is the six-syllabled “teşekur ederim,” I didn’t learn much before going. It was daunting, but not as difficult as I had imagined. Not many people spoke English well, but most spoke at least a few words. I’m always impressed that so many people around the world speak English. It’s amazing how global a language it has become, regardless of how that makes people feel.

Istanbul is the closest I’ve ever been to Asia–technically just inside it, upon arrival at the airport. It was a treat to experience something different, to wake up and drink Turkish coffee and eat lentil soup with pita bread, to smoke hookah more in three days than I ever have while watching a dervish whirl. To go to a reggae bar and pet all the workers’ pets they bring with them (it’s been too long since I’ve pet a kitten). To be awoken at dawn by the call to prayer, which sounded ominous the first day, but by the last day it just lulled me back to sleep, barely a punctuation mark in my dreams.



We had only a brief stint in Athens, two extended layovers on our way in and out of Santorini, a Greek island. Our first was on Christmas day, when we ate a lackluster meal and were plied with free wine. A quick night’s sleep in a drafty hostel and we were off again, bleary-eyed and hungover.


We spent four days on Santorini. The entire island was a ghost town of apocalyptic proportions. It rained three out of the four days we were there, me umbrella-less in suede shoes. Many of the businesses close during the winter because there are so many fewer tourists, so we had trouble finding an open restaurant that served more than coffee and drinks. We spent one rainy day at the salon, where the hairdresser told us December isn’t even the slowest month. I imagined that by going in a down-month I’d have a paradise all to myself, but as we sat in a barely-open restaurant on a non-existent beach in what I can only describe as a gale, rain soaking my inappropriate shoes, I saw how wrong I’d been.

There was one sunny day, a burst of hope. We rented a car and drove to Oía, the first settlement on the island, high up on the cliffs. I got to drive for the first time in months, up and up around a winding mountain road til we could go no farther. We got out and walked among the steep, white houses like you see when you google “Greek islands”. We stayed for the sunset, a pink thing bursting behind a volcano. Present-day Santorini is shaped like a crescent moon with a volcano in the middle, but it used to be a circular island, before the volcano erupted and formed a caldera around it. The water is dark, deep-blue, and lethal-looking.



One afternoon I had an unusual solitary moment, walking back from a few hours of coffee and reading. I rounded the bend to our place and from that hill I could see the sea. I was on an island in the Aegean and it was mostly gray and my shoes were kind of wet but it wasn’t raining and I was on an island in the Aegean. For me, for now, it’s worth the sacrifice of a well-paying job and a car and roots and less debt to spend one more year living this.

We made it back to Madrid on New Year’s Eve in time to watch everyone eating their grapes at midnight. I heard someone dies every year from choking on the grapes, unnoticed among all the flailing and revelry. I smoked a stranger’s rolled cigarette against a guardrail at the stroke of midnight, happy amid all the spilled champagne.