“Indelible in the Hippocampus is the Laughter.” — Dr. Christine Blasey Ford

I’m 5 and the other boys and girls in Mrs. M’s class point out the snot peering out my nose.

Indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter.

I’m 8 and I fall on my face playing jump rope, skinning my knees and muddying my new pink dress.

Indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter.

I’m 11 and yes, I am that girl anchoring our middle school’s morning announcements. I thought I looked awesome, no?

Indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter.

I’m 12 and I wish I was as graceful or as flexible or as pretty or as skinny as the other girls on my competitive dance team.

Indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter.

I’m 13 and three boys in my science class are teasing me for who knows why this time and I can’t stop crying and the girls just look away and the teacher suggests I wipe my eyes in the bathroom and I run out with salty tears dripping into my mouth, gasping for air, and wondering why no one seems to care.

Indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter.

I’m 14 and I’m in tremendous pain running a mile in 90-degree Florida heat and as I’m rounding the final curve of the track (woo, finally!), I realize that I’ll finish second-to-last and the other kids are betting if I’ll even make it.

Indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter.

I’m 17 and I smile when they announce the winner for youth group president but oh wait that’s not my name, they’re celebrating for the other girl, the popular girl.

Indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter.

I’m 18 and at my first college party and ew I don’t like the smell of beer and sweat and pot (is that pot?) and wow the music is so loud, I hate this, I wish I was back home and why is this guy grinding up on me, doesn’t he see I’m trying to escape the crowd?

Indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter.

I’m 20 and hanging out with some friends in our sorority house and my friend’s boyfriend is over and they’re drinking and what’s that, did he just slap my ass?!

Indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter.

I’m 24 and no, I don’t want to sleep with you, guy I met on OKcupid. Please, stop asking. Please, please, just take me home.

Indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter.

I’m 30 and I’m watching my nation’s leader mock the bravest woman, a woman who’s reached into her heart, revealed a traumatic truth, and spilled her pain out out out for the world to see — all to protect us.

Indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter.

I’m 30 and I don’t know how to live with the reality that my elected officials are lying and scheming and doing anything to stay in power, ignoring anguished cries and calls for justice, acting like their pain — our pain — is a lie, a nuisance.

Indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter.

GULP.

I’ve decided that it’s time — time to disclose a hidden trait and thus unveil my secret identity to the world: I have a superpower.

Like any good superhero worth their salt or bragging rights, my origin lies within a tragic backstory.

Get ready because this is a doozy. You will feel sorry — oh so very sorry — for me.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

As a wee young thing (a 3rd grader obsessed with American Girl dolls), I was struck by a devastating disease. I was banned from school, ridiculed by society, made a social pariah. I was pitied by all and feared by many.

For you see, dear readers, I had head lice.

My mother — yes, unlike most superheroes I had a living mother — searched high and low for cures for my disfigurement. She asked the local doctor, conferred with sympathetic townspeople, and scoured the ye ancient words of parenting magazines.

She dosed my curls in special shampoos, held me beneath the force of the mightiest hairdryer in all the land, and coated my scalp in an armor of petroleum jelly. But none of these noble attempts could match the power of the headstrong lice.

Finally, a wise sage (in the mortal form of an American Online chat room user) proposed a curious antidote: pour vinegar upon the afflicted child’s head.

So, into the shower my mother and I went — she armed with determination and a bottle of vinegar… and me armed with resignation, prepared to submit myself to another one of my darling mother’s mad schemes.

She wet my hair, as instructed by this story’s super-villain (alias: AOL user soccermom1961) then untwisted the bottle cap, releasing the potion we hoped would defeat the infection forevermore.

But instead of flowing straight into my awaiting scalp, the transparent $2.99 distilled liquid cascaded into the most unfortunate of places: my mouth. Teaspoon after teaspoon flooded through my lips, past my teeth, and down my throat.

That’s right, dear weary readers: as a kid, I swallowed a shit ton of vinegar.

I’ll pause the story while you scream.

AaAaAaAaaHHHHhHhhH!!!

I screamed then too.

I think. The only sensation which I, this story’s celebrated heroine, can recall is the vinegar’s revolting taste.

Actually, no. It wasn’t a taste. It was a pain. A burning, searing pain.

Think the results of the 2016 US presidential election transformed into a liquid then poured down my throat.

…Or vodka. OK yeah, think vodka — five shots force-consumed at once by an 8-year-old.

My mother sprung into sidekick-y action, offering up a myriad of vinegar-taste

suppressants. First, a gallon of water to swallow. Then, some apple juice. Orange juice. Milk. Next, a lollipop to suck on.

Another lollipop.

Another.

An industrial size bag of lollipops was sacrificed to the cause, each sucked clean to its stick by my desperate lips throughout the day.

But nothing — not water, nor OJ, nor the center or a tootsie roll pop — could avail me of the abhorrent taste.

Nay, the burning.

Oh dear gawwwd, the burning!

If I close my eyes and think of vinegar now, I can still feel it: a ghost, haunting my taste buds. It’s lingered there — possessed my tongue — for years. Decades.

You’ll surely take pity upon me when I tell you this: growing up, I had to flee school cafeterias many a time, whenever a schoolmate dared to unleash the horror of horrors from their lunch box: a bag of salt and vinegar chips.

For you see, dear readers (who are surely now shivering in secondhand pain), the shower incident of 1996 endued me with the following superpower: extreme vinegar detection and sensitivity.

In other words, I can smell vinegar from many yards—miles, maybe… light-years, possibly—away.

It is my gift. It is my curse. I am Vinegirl.

I still can’t share space with a single fried potato or baked pretzel if it possesses a mere drop of vinegar seasoning. My head will begin to pound, my stomach will drop, and my throat will constrict — my entire body fighting the liquid enemy at bay.

Cleaning products made with vinegar, and the spaces that make use of its demonic bidding, are off limits to me.

I may not ever be able to tolerate the scent of vinegar again. For as long as I live, I shall carry the weight of this grand affliction.Kryptonite ain’t got nothing on Superman like vinegar has on me.

But I am strong. I am powerful.

My nose and I can warn other unsuspecting souls of vinegar as it begins to invade our midst.

Call me, Marvel Studios. I’ve got a blockbuster to pitch.

They arrived in different packages, of varying weights and strengths.

Many came with my birth. (White. Able-Bodied. American. Neurotypical.)

Others came later. (Cisgender. Thin. Heteroromantic.) Or at least, people figured — assumed, unquestionably — that they were at my doorstep, though they weren’t brought inside, encompassed into my life, right away.

Some packages are easy to spot, obviously in my possession. Others are more transparent or oddly shaped, not quite the norm or ill-fitting within their boxes. People question if I’m their rightful owner. I sometimes do too.

All people own boxes.

But some have more — way, way more — than others.

Oddly enough, many of the most gifted people want more. Demand more. They suspect that other people are hatching elaborate plans to steal their boxes. Use them for themselves to get ahead, then turn back, mockingly.

They never consider sharing.

Other people, who have more than their fair share of boxes, deny owning even a single one. “What box?” they say, while clinging to a massive one, on display and in other people’s way.

Other folks can’t stop insisting that they never ordered any damn boxes — never specifically requested them.

But that’s completely irrelevant.

They still have them. They accepted them. They held on to them. Hold on to them. Everyday.

Most types of boxes can’t be discarded or recycled, even if their owners want to; they own them for life.

Sure, a box can change strength or force — often upon aging or being moved a great distance— but it’s a weight the person will always carry. For better or for worse.

No two people have the exact same arrangements of boxes.

Even within the same family. Or at least, each individual interacts with their own collection differently. They see their boxes differently. Treasure different ones above others. Display them differently. Present them to the world differently.

And, over the years, whether through time or circumstance, a person’s collection becomes all tied up. Boxes are interconnected, impossible to tear apart. Tangled within each other. No one their owner meets — be it a friend, a stranger, or an acquaintance — can celebrate the existence of one box but deny the worth of another.

Collections don’t work like that. They’re— quite literally — a package deal.

People are often envious of other people’s boxes.

They wish they had been gifted them, too. Or could order them. Work for them. Be rewarded them. Deemed worthy.

Life is harder without them. (Though that doesn’t mean they dislike the boxes they have been handed. They’re usually quite proud of their ownings. They may be meager, less valued by other folks, but they’re still uniquely wonderful.)

But people with only a few boxes — or lacking a fundamental one — rarely wish that no one owned boxes. They simply want box owners to share the wealth — to let more people enjoy the wonder of their contents, without charging a steep price or asking the non-owners to give up another box in return.

How is it decided what collection each person gets to own?

Who decides it?

No one person — every person. It’s systemic. Ingrained. Set by a disorderly, ever-evolving algorithm that may have once had roots in science, but is now shaped much more by humankind and its flawed pseudoscience.

It can be changed — this box-owning allocation of who gets what and who can’t even touch certain boxes — but it will take time.

And collaboration. Especially from those with many boxes — the ones wrapped up with the most power.

People have to first look around, recognize and take stock of what they own. Only then can the system be dismantled.

Yes, I own privileges. Maybe more than you. Maybe less.

We can’t do a gift exchange, but surely we can unwrap, reveal, and dissect what’s inside.

I’d like to share. Will you?

Dear alluring stranger,

I was atop my memory foam mattress — wiggling and wobbling, stressing and worrying, breathing in cat hair and breathing out ravioli breath. Ah, I was exquisite! Just like Sleeping Beauty, if only she were too neurotic to sleep and too hair-sweaty to have beauty.

You were a half-formed story idea, original in topic and enchanting in tone. You swept into my consciousness without warning, luring my mind away from its usual nighttime fears of personal failure and World War III. You seduced me with a witty opening, an unexpected closing, and keen insight into the human psyche. There may have also been a Monica Lewinsky joke. But a kind one, the world’s first.

Oh, how I wish I had written you down, my dear strange idea in the night! I told myself that I’d remember you come morning. That you were too topical, too captivating, too intoxicatingly fabulous to escape my brain through the trap door of sleep.

I’m so sorry I let you become The One That Got Away.

Please, if you care for me but at all — if you trust that I can execute your contents half-perfectly, give you an at-least-mediocre voice, and earn you a non-zero number of readers — then find me again. I may be reached any day, morning, afternoon, or night, whenever is most convenient for you. (I promise to write you down this time, even if it’s by blinking in Morse code to my cat at 3:39am.)

Please, we could win a Nobel Prize together! I could sell 100 million copies of you worldwide! You could become a trending topic on Twitter! You could be read by Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and/or his wife, Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge and I could be booked by them, decades in advance, to one day read a snippet of you at Prince George’s wedding.

Don’t you want to be read at Prince George’s wedding, dear story idea? Why would you deprive yourself of that?!?

Anyway, if you could re-enter my brain or something, that would be cool, I guess. Whatever.

Yours truly and waiting,

the woman in the mismatched pajamas and discount grapefruit-scented nighttime anti-aging facial cream

Dear Writing Mood,

Where have you gone today? Did I do something wrong?

I woke up as I usually do — with a cat on my chest, a hunger in my stomach, and a Hamilton lyric on my mind.

I ate breakfast as I usually do (greek yogurt and banana slices enjoyed with a youtube video). I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and popped in my contacts. I looked up the weather. Frowned at the weather. Yawned. Checked facebook. Yawned. Checked instagram. Yawned. Checked CNN.com. Screamed internally for five minutes, praying to god and Anderson Cooper to make it stop.

I had a miscommunication with my Amazon Echo. (“Alexa, play songs by NYSNC.” “I can’t find songs by En Suite.” “NO. Alexa, play songs by NSYNC.” “I can’t find songs by And Stick.” “Alexa, please play songs please by the sensational 90s boy band NSYNC. Please.” “Playing songs by Ed Sheeran.”)

I did all my typical morning things.

Usually, my dearest darlingest ’ol friend Writing Mood, you’d pay me a visit by now. You’d rush up to me with a perplexing mix of madcap enthusiasm, delusions of grandeur/future Pulitzer winnings, and screeching, terrified doubt. You’d distract me from listening to an NPR podcast, looking up bulk grocery deals on Amazon, tossing an overprice toy at my cat for her to barely chase once then ignore, or completing some other vital task.

But today, you’re MIA. I’ve sat down to utilize you — with my laptop, then my notepad, then my phone — but you’re gone. Out of reach. Vanished. Amelia Earhart-ed.

Did I do something wrong? Something to upset you? I swear I haven’t been cheating on you with Pinterest DIY Crafting Mood; we’re just friends! Yes, she’s made me some beautiful artwork and scrumptious dinners, but we don’t share the same deep, life-affirming connection as you and me. She doesn’t get me like you do; she’s not The One.

Am I not worthy of you anymore? Have you gone off to romance younger writers? Hipper writers? Charming wide-eyed writers who practice adjective restraint and don’t overuse the em dash? Is it my habit of ending sentences in prepositions to which you cannot put up? Do you talk dirty to these budding wordsmiths? Poetically? Lyrical? Listicle-ly?!

I can be all those things too! (Come back and I can publish 20 Incredible Reasons Why I Desire to Be in the Writing Mood. Or 30! Or 50!)

Please. Just tell me what to do. How can we reconnect? I can’t write without you. I’m lost! I’m hopeless! I’m trapped! I’m going to spend the day rewatching and crying over the new Queer Eye instead! (Don’t test me; I’ll do it.) I’m —

….wait, wait, what’s that? Are… are you trying to tell me something, my sweet precious Writing Mood?

…Oh, pfffft this letter?!? Huh. I guess I did just write something. Would you look at that?

Thank you, you mischievous little trickster. I love you.

Hey. We need to talk.

Do you remember where you were the afternoon of November 3, 2015? At approximately 1:07pm?

Because I sure do.

You were in a crowded cafe, as rain poured outside and early 90s rock music played inside. You wore a tailored business suit, carried a brief case, and were clean shaven. You appeared to be a mature, intelligent adult.

But then you strolled up to the overworked cashier and spat out “spicy tuna salad on chocolate chip, please” as your order.

That was pretty fuckin’ weird.

I was the customer behind you. You probably don’t remember me — given that this was nearly three years ago, we never spoke, and I ordered a forgettable sesame bagel with plain, low-fat cream cheese.

How ya doin’, buddy?? Can I call you buddy? I thought about you a lot since that fateful day we almost met.

I’ve turned your decision over and over in my mind and have come up with only one logical explanation: you were trying to teach me a lesson.

Or lessonS, rather.

Here’s what I learned:

Never be afraid to ask for what you want. No one’s gonna just hand you a promotion, a day off, or a dollop of spicy salt water fish on sugary bread.

Be confident in knowing your own desires. Don’t settle for cream cheese when you’re really craving canned mackerel.

Get creative! Life is to short to solely mimic what others have done before you. It’s a vast world out there, filled with many protein choices and baked vessels to pair them with. Go out and explore!

Life is like a chocolate chip bagel with spicy tuna salad. Some parts are sweet, some parts are stinky, and some parts are gaping empty holes. Oh and it’ll probably make you gassy.

Don’t worry about what other people may think of you. So what if the neurotic girl behind you in the cafe line will judge you, waking up in a cold sweat for hundreds of consecutive days, remembering your actions and finally deciding on day number 935 to self-publish an essay about it? Not your problem.

Thank you for these incredible teachings, oh great one! You took a peculiar route to instill this knowledge in me but I respect it.

…or maybe you just really like mayo with chocolate? Sicko.

Dear Chris, Josh, other Chris & Boy Always in Cargo Shorts (Kevin?),

Hi there, fellas! Remember me? The girl from middle school with braces, Abercrombie & Fitch jeans, and unwavering opinions about each of the Backstreet Boys?

Sure, I can be a little more specific.

I was the one you teased mercilessly.

How ya doing? Things still going well back in our hometown? Enjoying your 2nd divorce, Josh?

That’s good to hear.

I’m writing to say

thank you.

Thank you for ridiculing my straightened hair.

It’s encouraged me to rock my natural curls.

Thank you for pointing out that I cry easily.

It’s helped me embrace all my emotions.

Thank you for making me lonely.

It’s inspired me to always include outsiders.

Thank you for delighting in my frowns.

It’s made me quick to smile.

Thank you for laughing at my love of reading.

It’s fueled my desire to create.

Thank you for mocking my voice.

It’s taught me to use it.

Thank you for calling me “crazy.”

It’s made me a proud mental health advocate.

Thank you for pointing out my short height.

It’s empowered me to stand tall.

Thank you for calling me weak.

It’s revealed my incredible strength.

Thank you for claiming that my eyes are lopsided.

It’s allowed me to see the world more clearly.

Thank you for making me feel hopeless.

It’s shown that I can make it through anything.

Thank you for calling me a freak.

It’s made me realize that normality is overrated.

Thank you for saying I’m weird.

It’s made me cherish my quirks.

Thank you for acquainting me with hate.

It’s helped me recognize love.

Thank you for teasing me.

It’s taught me the transformative power of words.

I hope you’ve learned from it, too.

xoxo,

“Cryin’ Jodi”

P.S. See you at the school reunion.

Hiring Committee or Whoever Can Validate Me

1234 Hurry Up & Appreciate My Drive

Quarter-Life Crisis #1

Hustle Town, USA 56789

Dear Hiring Committee:

As a lifelong human, I’m delighted to see your opening for a full-time position of Feeling Like an Adult, as advertised and vaguely described everywhere. The role was recommended to me by society. 

I have over 30 years of progressively responsible experience as an earthly being. During this time, I’ve simultaneously managed a surplus of insecurities, developed (and sometimes even completed) numerous self-improvement projects, and balanced a high annual budget of fucks to give. 

I believe that my enthusiasm for peer approval, dedication to not being a disappointment to my family, and knowledge of multiple ways to organize a closet — coupled with my experience in living under the patriarchy and getting shit done — make me an ideal candidate for this thankless role. 

In my current position as Floundering Young “Adult” in the prestigious Milky Way, I have overcome a wide variety of normal human challenges, including a crippling deficit of career fulfillment, spectacular financial demands within a capitalist economy, and (for a few memorable hours last spring), being the hopelessly single maid-of-honor at my sister’s wedding. 

Additionally, I’ve excelled at signing leases for several apartments (each with dishwashers), providing my body with food (often with nutrients), and completing laundry-based tasks (occasionally with little-to-no clothes shrinkage). 

Please see my reputation (attached). If I were to finally join the esteemed rankings of Feeling Like an Adult, I’m confident(ish) that I’d be an exceptionally mediocre member of global society. I look forward to hearing from you as I continue to strive for self actualization and avoid facing the fact of my inevitable mortality. 

Thank you so much for your time and consideration! I may be reached anytime at the crossroads of angst and optimism.

Sincerely,

IDK, You Tell Me Who I Really Am

likereally@mycore.pls

hair enchanting like the space between stars

pink pillow lips

eyes brown as fresh soil

MY EYES ARE GREEN

a warm voice reminiscent of the California sun she was born brightly into

I'M FROM MICHIGAN, I TOLD -

skin to skin, soul to soul

sparks flew as our bodies melted into one

WHAT?! WE DIDN'T EVEN KISS!

our relationship blooming...

IT WAS ONE DATE

...as spring bloomed all around us

PRETTY SURE IT WAS NOVEMBER

dazzling love at first glance

from across a field

brimming with dancing butterflies

birds serenading us in song

and -

WE MET ON TINDER, GREG

I remember you

... or at least the feel of you

a heavy hug

playful toe massages

an itchy, overstuffed couch

and the sounds of you

jubuliant laughter

awed sighs

offers of lollipops

and the joy of being with you

safety

I love you

I love you

I love you

the words roll off my tongue

a mediation of acceptance

a mantra in memory

a desperate call to unwind time

I see you atop every ocean

at its meeting with the sky

someday our drums will sychronize

someday we’ll sail together

(inspired by Rhythm of My Heart - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hVeZsG-9wVE ... and dedicated to my grandfather, who died when I was five and listened to this song constantly at the hospital)