Category: blog

Some conversations are so absurd that they force your mind into tangential reflection. During a recent phone call with my eldest nephew Junie, his roommate/platonic life partner Tor walked into the kitchen as Junie was making pancakes. Somehow the subject of ravioli came up, Tor’s argument being that every culture has some form of stuffed dumpling, from the Spanish empanada to the Japanese shumai, and that in America, our version is the Pop-Tart.

This was a hill she was willing to die upon. Junie then wondered where that left UnCrustables, and he had a valid point. Arguably, they are more ravioli shaped, and since they’re sealed, doesn’t that mean they’re no longer just a sandwich?

I just love this kid. I don’t even think he knows how funny he is. I mean, he did name his cat Lady Bimble of Lansdowne Borough. Junie isn’t exactly a Whiskers or Fluffy kinda guy. If only he could see himself the way that I do. From the second he was born, Junie made me believe in love at first sight, and that’s saying a lot because his head was so pointy from a difficult labor that the little hospital beanie he had to wear after delivery barely hit him mid-forehead. Don’t worry, it rounded out eventually.

In my heart, Junie will always be that perfect little baby, but if we want to get all chronologically technical about it, Junie is a 27-year-old man: a 27-year-old man who struggles with very big feelings. Like his auntie (yours truly), he has spent most of his life grappling mano a mano with depression and anxiety. Unlike his auntie, he hasn’t quite mastered the one-two punch yet, and I stress yet, because I have an unyielding conviction that he’ll land that haymaker and send his depression flying one day.

Like I said, I wish Junie could see himself through my eyes. He puts so much pressure on himself to live up to the expectations of others, and Dear Dolly Parton, do I know what that’s like. The thing is, Junie hasn’t quite figured out his path yet. There’s nothing wrong with that. I’ve been there myself. But Junie thinks it’s a problem, which just adds to his depression, because in his mind, the problem is him.

He’s not the problem though. Neither is the fact that he doesn’t have a clear course planned. J.R.R. Tolkien wrote, “Not all those who wander are lost,” and I vigorously agree with that sentiment. In a way, I think Junie is trying to get off the path that was set before him, so a bit of wandering has been necessary. I can’t say I blame him. Junie’s path has been cluttered with trauma.

The shit this kid witnessed when he was little would make anyone with half a heart sob. On top of growing up in a home where domestic violence and drug use were too commonly observed, when he was 10-years-old his baby brother was killed in a housefire caused by his own father who, after being released from prison for said fire, overdosed on heroin and died.

Then his mother, who couldn’t cope with her son’s death, turned to drugs herself, ultimately resulting in my parents (his grandparents) taking custody of Junie and his little sister, whom he had bravely rescued from the fire.

This could have broken him. It could have made him resentful, cold, mean, cynical, but it didn’t. Junie’s trauma made him gentler, kinder, funnier, more protective, compassionate, and marvelously sensitive. While sometimes it flickers, Junie didn’t let his light fade into the grief of his past.

Instead, he turned bitter into sweet without even trying. It’s just who he is, and I’m so proud of him for it.  Does he struggle with depression and anxiety? Yes, but isn’t he fucking entitled to that?

So ahem, back to the ravioli theory. Listening to Junie and Tor debate with unapologetic seriousness about Pop-Tarts, I delighted in how silly he was able to be in that moment.

That’s the real Junie. Playful and unpretentious. For all the pain that could have swallowed him whole, Junie is still here – still gentle, still hilarious, and still leaning into joy and connection over ridiculous philosophical arguments about stuffed pasta and toaster pastries.

He may not see it yet, but I do. Junie is not broken. He is not lost. Junie is becoming. And I have no doubt that the same tender heart that turned unimaginable pain into unshakeable kindness will lead him to the exact path where he belongs.

You have no responsibility to live up to what other people think you ought to accomplish

– Richard Feynman

As much as I hate to admit it, I wasn’t always the well-adjusted (generally), emotionally intelligent (for the most part) therapist and human that I am today. In many ways, I was a pretty normal child, spending most of my time outdoors riding bikes, roller-skating, and making mischief with the other neighborhood kids. I loved to read and draw, go to the movies, and have sleepovers with my friends or at Grandmom’s house. Pretty ordinary stuff, right?

But in other ways, I was the emotional equivalent of a midair lawn dart. When I was “in a mood,” I expressed myself with swift, blindsiding punches, typically accompanied by a verbal mugging or a fiercely hurled sarcastic taunt. Even into my twenties (ok, fine, and even now), I was a bit of a sharp-tongued hussy, but as anyone who knows me now can attest, I’m 90% loving and supportive nurturer, 10% verbally mugging lawn dart. I’m comfortable with that particular ratio.

For the most part, I don’t feel shame for the actions I took as a little kid. I didn’t know any better, and I used the broken tools I had to protect myself and keep others at a safe distance. One of the lessons I learned at home was that aggression evoked terror, because that was how I felt, and in turn, I projected that onto others. The common saying “hurt people hurt people” could not have been more on the nose (foreshadowing pun not intended), but there is one memory from my childhood that I still regret to this day.

So, as one might have already guessed, since I am neither Billy nor the seatbelt buckle of a van, the bully in this story is referring to yours truly. It was me. I did it. I’m the asshole.

When I was in elementary school, my parents forced me and my two younger sisters into an agonizing summer activity known as Vacation Bible School. I absolutely hated it. It was loud, chaotic, crowded, and hot AF, and as an introvert and Highly Sensitive Person – a discovery made in therapy during my mid 20s (God bless you, Dr. Elaine Aron), by the end of each day my nervous system was an arc flash waiting to happen. Because I was just a kid, I didn’t have the language for overwhelm, or any skills to regulate it. All I had was impulse: no flight, freeze, or fawn. Only fight. 100% Id, 0% Superego.

At the end of the week, on the last day, I and about ten other weary passengers were crammed into the church van transporting us home. In the row behind me sat Billy, the unfortunate soul who just so happened to poke this cranky bear at exactly the wrong time. I don’t remember what he said that sparked my fury, but I do remember grabbing the unused seatbelt next to me and flinging it right at him. I never meant to hurt him. I just wanted to give him a fright. But didn’t that goddamn metal buckle bash poor Billy right on the bridge of his nose.

I still remember the look on his face: the shock, the confusion, the pain, followed by a determined expression that said, “I will not cry.” I immediately felt awful, a gut-wrenching, root chakra-rumbling remorse that I can still feel now, recalling what a terrible thing I had just done. The worst part is that I never got to apologize, to tell him how sincerely and profoundly sorry I was that I almost broke his face.

It took years of therapy and excruciating self-work to polish this angry little turd. Certain stretches of my ongoing journey have involved moving from shame (there’s something wrong with me) to guilt (there’s something wrong with what I did), and Billy was part of that. For that, I will always be grateful to him. Growth doesn’t erase harm, but it does change how we hold it, so if you’re out there somewhere, I’M SORRY, BILLY! I hope you eventually became a happy, healthy millionaire.

May you always dodge flying objects and be immeasurably loved.