I knew this was coming but it was still a shock. When I read that Sinead O’Connor had lost her son to suicide, it was a a given that she wouldn’t stick around. Her panic and horror were familiar, and I relived it for a long time. I braced myself. And it seems like a miracle that she stayed as long as she did, a little more than a year.

Even if you never liked her, you must have recognized an exquisitely sensitive soul without much of a protective membrane. She clearly was driven to tell the truth – not tell, but shout out – without thought of the consequences. I used to be like that, once.

She told us that her son was her soulmate, the only person who had ever loved her unconditionally.  And that’s just too much of a loss. I have been there. I’m still there.

When you lose your soulmate, or your twin soul, whatever term you like to describe this, you literally feel hollowed out, less substantial, without the ballast that kept you safely rooted to earth. I’m not being poetic, just factual.

Sinead O’Connor’s death is such a tragedy because it shouldn’t have happened and yet was inevitable. There are a million tributes and think pieces now that she’s gone, and while it’s a comfort to know that she was appreciated, it has really destabilized me personally. I feel guilty for being here after thirteen years. What kind of monster am I to go on without Max?

It hurts me to write his name. It’s better to write about Lost Sons in general. I can go for weeks without hearing or saying his name. People don’t want to bring it up, unless it’s his birthday or the anniversary of his exit. I hear music that I know he would’ve liked and say aloud, “Max would have liked this.” My husband replies, “Uh huh,” but it feels wrong. He should say, “Yes! He would love it and he hears it now! He would love it because his taste was so impeccable and wide-ranging and in keeping with his brilliance! Why is he gone? Bring him back!” But it’s not my husband’s job to speak what’s in my heart.

I always wonder if people who learn that I lost a son are thinking, “God, what an awful mother! Why didn’t she kill herself! I myself could never survive this!” One of my half-sisters actually said something like this, making it about her. Obviously she’s an idiot so she doesn’t count.

But I’m sure that other mothers who aren’t idiots are thinking this, silently reprimanding me for my unforgivable ability to go on. I don’t blame them.

I would like to apologize! Forgive me. It’s not that I’m shallow or not heartbroken beyond repair. At first, it was because I couldn’t abandon my younger boy. I couldn’t bear the thought of shattering the lives of my family members; it seemed too cruel to put them through it. Later, it was a courtesy to my husband, as I liked to remind him. Now it’s mostly a lack of courage. If I was sure we’d be reunited, I could do it. Even if we weren’t reunited, I remind myself, I’d be passing through the same door he passed through.

The other day, I was lying in bed, looking at my beautiful antique dresser and the shit on the walls and I felt a wave of sentimental fondness for them. I remarked to my husband, “I’ll miss this room when I’m dead!” He laughed and said, “Well, that’s better than saying ‘I wouldn’t miss any of this crap’!”

But I meant it. I’ll miss a lot of things when I’m dead. To be or not to be is a daily choice, not just according to Camus:

There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy. All the rest — whether or not the world has three dimensions, whether the mind has nine or twelve categories — comes afterwards. These are games; one must first answer.

and/but:

Men are never convinced of your reasons, of your sincerity, of the seriousness of your sufferings, except by your death. So long as you are alive, your case is doubtful; you have a right only to their skepticism.

I doubt that Sinead wrestled with this. I believe she followed her heart. I respect her courage and sense of purpose. If living without her boy was a battle for her, it was one battle too many. I hope he kept a seat for her. And if there’s no afterlife out in the cosmos, at least she passed through the same door. My she rest easy for eternity.

I know I should have seen it coming but let’s call me a hopeless romantic, or just a dope. When Pete talked about wanting to be a father, I heard wedding bells (and calls to available surrogates.) But then…you know the rest.

I need to know why! And who dumped who. Let Pete be the dumper, if you’re listening Jesus! How can they turn on a dime like that? Did something happen in Australia? Did Pete’s BDE fail him, or did Kim suddenly realize that he’s white?

When their thing was first reported, I was amazed by the incongruity just like everyone else. What the hell? I thought. But as it continued, I began furiously projecting. Kim must be smarter than we thought, if Pete likes her. In our narrative of Pete, he’s too smart and sensitive to waste his time on an idiot. She would have to have real substance as a human being, right? This meant that Kim Kardashian is not what she appears to be, e.g. an insufferable narcissist and plastic surgery addict!

And given Kim’s imagined ability to have any man, this meant that Pete is not only a great fuck but also a dynamic paragon of manliness. Plus, she introduced him to the kids!

I found myself daydreaming about Kim and Pete. Mostly it was hazy soft porn. I tried to imagine Pete’s frail physique juxtaposed with Kim’s gigantic mounds of silicone. On the one hand, ew. But on the other hand, I really wanted to visualize how it would work. I think this could be called mental fan-fiction.

I studied every picture of them to parse their body language. Their hand-holding was so cute! Their goofy selfies! Their trips to exotic beaches!

I was googling Kim-and-Pete several times a day. I couldn’t get enough. It as like a Novella only with higher stakes. And here’s the worst thing of all: I watched the Kardashian show for the whole season, eager for news about the budding love affair and for hints that Kim was not an idiot. My husband humored me and watched it too. We agreed that Kendall was painfully stupid but he thought Kourtney was even stupider. It’s a tough call, I guess.

At least I won’t have to watch any more of that crap. No more of their giant nothing-colored living rooms and staged heart-to-heart confidences. No more reminding my husband of how much Kylie has done to her face and how much weight Khloe has lost. No more of those nude lipsticked fish-pouts!

But when I woke up and heard about the break-up, I was devastated. I am not making this up; I was stunned and heartbroken. Could it be a mistake? Maybe so, because we didn’t hear it firsthand from Kim or Pete.

Now I’ve accepted that it’s over, and my hurt has turned to resentment. I feel cheated and duped. First I thought it was selfish of them to take away our only moments of respite from anxiety and global catastrophe. Now I’m wondering if the whole entire thing was a publicity stunt. So was it?? A friend believes it was a publicity stunt AND they also slept together. Whatever.

Now that Pete is history, clarity has returned and I see that Kim is indeed a big ho who can’t take her eyes off herself for a single minute and will do anything to hold the world’s interest. How dare she wear Marilyn’s dress! May she put on all the weight she’s lost and then some. May she take a fall down some stairs in those stupid stiletto heeled shoe-pants. God I hate her. I’m going to unfollow her on Instagram as soon as I wind this up.

I hope Pete can start dating someone twenty years younger than Kim whose butt doesn’t need a wheelbarrow to carry it and who doesn’t need hair extensions. I will forgive Pete for this slip-up because he is chronically depressed, genuinely funny, and because of that big dick. JUST KIDDING about the dick, of course, because a big brain is way more exciting, right ladies?

All we need to do now is predict Kim and Pete’s next love interests. Thoughts??

Watching Trump on TV the other day, I considered the depth and breadth of my hatred for him. I hate him with more specificity than I’ve ever hated anyone, except maybe my ex-husband.

After 17 years with him, I hated the way my ex drank his daily orange juice. He placed his feet in a certain way, and always faced the same window.

Usually, you have to spend a lifetime with someone before you can hate them at this granular level, but Trump lays outside of usual parameters. In four years, he has seeded a wild garden of almost metaphysical hatred, such that most of us feel like world class connoisseurs.

Who among us does not hate the way he shapes his mouth in that puckered O? What about the sniffing? What about how he stands, leaning forward and rocking back and forth? What about the back of his head, the way he combs his “hair” into a coiffed duck-tail? The way he pronounces China, always pausing a beat before uttering the word and letting you know that he’s really thinking “vagina.”

The hyperbole, the biggest ever, more than anyone has ever seen, perhaps in the history of the world. And the imaginary People who are always Saying.

The slow lumbering portentous walk, the ill-fitting suits, the flapping overcoat, the hand gestures. The fucking hand gestures! The way he modulates his voice, the way he says “intress-ting” when he means “I’m so mad about this.” The way he mimics intelligent people in a dumb Poindexter voice. The way he likes to call himself Sir when he quotes people.

The way he says “Ivanka” with a disturbing reverence. The expression on his face when he’s pretending to listen to anyone, restlessly waiting to return to the spotlight.

I know I’m leaving out so much! Yesterday, my sister texted me to see if I’d noticed that his hair was less yellow. Of course I had. Am I blind or what?

I feel I’ve been driven to the outer limit of hatred with this cunt. I’m a hateful person anyway, but this is different.

However, luckily, I can still register love.

I’ve been watching the Smithsonian’s Panda Cam, enthralled by the way Mei Xiang, the 22 year old mother, cares for her baby, Bao Bao.

It’s almost unbearable to witness such maternal tenderness. Watch her as she plays with her cub and audibly kisses it, rolling it around and cradling it as it snuggles into her huge body.

Any mother will be moved by this exhibit of sublime love. Cynics can point out that this is just instinct, but so what? Plenty of our behavior is instinctive. It would be nice if we were better in touch with some of our instincts, like compassion. Compassion can be hard to muster while our bodies and souls have been so relentlessly threatened in 2020.

I wish I were the mother panda, or the baby. I wish I could be immersed in love. It’s a daily struggle, isn’t it?

But as I’ve been sitting here typing, my husband has popped his head in three times to ask how I’m doing and if I need anything. Maybe he is my mother panda! In the awful awfulness of my life, he is a blessing. Should we have our own live stream?!

A few years ago I asked Max what he’s been up to, I can’t remember if it was in a dream or just in my head. But I remember that he answered, “Just chillin.” He sounded relaxed and content.

Today is his birthday and he’s chillin in paradise. The force is with him and so am I, always and forever.

Fuck you people who are all “Who cares about Brad and Jen!” like you’re above all that stupid gossip. YOU ARE THE STUPID ONES. Brad and Jen can bring this country together, if you’d just let them!

Brad and Jen, or is it Jen and Brad? You’d think I would know, given how many stories I made up when I worked for the tabloids. All the years of those fake magazine covers…I just saw one tonight that said, “Brad finally introduces Jen to his children, now they’re a real family!” As if!

We made fun of them, sure, but now is the time to turn our lonely eyes to Brad and Jen. They are mom and dad, the people next door, they are you and me! They can go through a million traumas and still patch things up! Let them! In fact, MAKE THEM DO IT, for their country.

If Brad and Jen are you and me, let Angelina be Trump, the larger-than-life monster who deceives everyone into thinking she/he can make our dreams come true. Soon, Angelina/Trump could no longer maintain the ruse. She/he was actually a maniac who would do anything to hurt and humiliate us!

Poor Brad was fooled by those big lips and those adopted children. He lost himself. Everyone knows that Brad morphs into someone new each time he changes girlfriends. With Gwyneth he was one thing, with Jen he was another. With Jen, he was his Best Self, and we know how important it is to be your Best Self. With Jen, Brad could sit around all day smoking weed and minding his own business. With Angelina, he had to be Mister International, flying around pretending to care about shit.

And Jen! She had to marry that awful guy with the big dick, what was his name? Anyway, what a gigolo he turned out to be, no surprise there, right? We knew it wouldn’t last even if Jen didn’t.

Now Jen has her dream house and all her friends and she is good without having children because a woman can be fulfilled without being a mother, god damn you haters. STOP MAKING HER EXPLAIN HERSELF.

Jen is in great shape for 50 and has never been happier, alright? And Brad has been taking time to think about what really matters. I saw this in GQ, so I know. He’s been rethinking his priorities. And god knows he’s learned his lesson about hooking up with a big-lipped woman who won’t eat and keeps acquiring kids who she then turns against him.

Let Brad and Jen be happy. Let them rediscover how great it is to just sit at home and smoke weed. Let them patch up their production company and start looking for a project they can star in. Let them go to their plastic surgeons together and maybe loosen up their faces. Their faces are starting to look like puppets. But at least they eat!

Let’s come together, people. It’s time. We need to heal and we need to start now, as the impeachment threatens to erase what’s left of our common humanity.

Thank you Brad and Jen! All is forgiven! Begin your new journey together, preferably with a star-studded wedding, and just allow us to love your Best Selves. God bless you and God Bless America.

I’m not one to look for old friends on Facebook and I usually ignore those fake requests from LinkedIn. I don’t care about my ancestry and I’m not interested in friends from high school because for one thing, I didn’t go to high school. Mostly I’m content to just keep tabs on the Ex-wife, as I’ve mentioned before. If I need to feel smarter than somebody, she always delivers.

But a few weeks ago, I clicked on a LinkedIn notice, and while there, it occurred to me to look for the Tragedy. Something must have triggered this. Maybe something I watched on TV. So I typed in his name and there he was! No photo, and only one job listed, one that had ended. I sent a request to join his network and then returned to my regular programming.

It was a surprise when he responded with a long reply. It was great to hear from me! He had found my blog a few years ago, and had read the archives. He was so sorry about Max. He had thought of writing to me a thousand times. My writing was so good! He even read my stuff at Miista! As for him, he’d moved back to his hometown. He had never married.

My predominant feeling, my only feeling, was outrage.

WHAT?!? You read about the loss of my son and didn’t have the decency to express your condolences? How hard would that be? There’s the risk that I’d be annoyed, but please. I personally have written to strangers after reading about their loss. A senator, a governor, a regular person. I just want to offer sympathy and if possible, some words of comfort.

Then there’s the general feeling of being stalked. Stalked in the sense of reading all about my life and my thoughts without making a peep. It feels invasive. Even though I write for the entire world, I don’t expect the people I know to pore over my blog. It’s not a group letter about my vacation in Paris, France. I write from a need to express myself, to send a message in a bottle to someone who might relate or understand.

Okay, so there I am, fuming. I read the letter to my husband, who says Big deal, what’s so enraging? I read it to my sister, who says, Oh my god, what a fucker! This is one reason to have a sister. A huge reason.

I called a friend who I’d met at the bookstore, who had known the Tragedy and knew the whole story. His reaction was, Aw, how nice, and what a sweet guy. Ha. I reminded him of all the times we would argue about the best candidate to anally penetrate the Tragedy, thereby to teach him a thing or two. It came down to Vince Neil versus Steven Tyler. The debates were fierce, and accompanied by hysterical laughter.

Such was my bitterness at being rejected.

I could have ignored the letter but instead, I chose to reply and be direct. I wrote back:

But you broke my heart! So callously!

The last time we spoke, you looked me right in the eye and said, “I was never in love with you.” Said with no affect.

Would you like to moderate that in any way?

He did want to moderate it, in fact. And the whole affair came rushing back to me, a delirious mixture of bliss and despair.

As far back as I can remember listening to music, Aretha Franklin has been part of my life. She was my first idol. She made me feel like a natural woman at 15. No one ever surpassed her effect on me as a vocalist. Amy is a close second. But Aretha, she is a goddess.

Her piano playing, her gospel singing, her infinite coolness, her strength, her femininity, her dignity, her furs, what more could you ask for?

The last record of hers I actually spent cash money on was Young, Gifted and Black, a fucking masterpiece, but I have spent many happy hours listening to her on our digital files of a billion songs. Just like everyone, I feel like she is singing to me personally, one sister to another.

I’m writing now because I don’t want to say goodbye. Long live my darling first love and may we all think of her at every stage, young, old, fat, thin, fully alive and blessed with that commanding, singular, phenomenal voice. Our Queen forever and ever.

When I first heard the premise of The Shape of Water, I immediately thought, “Mrs. Caliban!” Sharing this thought with others, I was forced into an explanation that got me nowhere.

When I read Mrs. Caliban in 1982, I had friends who were reading it as well, and I remember finishing it in one sitting, that’s how compelling it is. At 110 pages, it’s not like I’m bragging. I just don’t see how you could stop once you start.

The shared premise is a woman who falls in love with an amphibian.

I’m not saying that the movie drew from the novella, because there are so many other cinematic and literary instances of inter-species romance. But still. In both cases, the gigantic green creature is everything a woman could long for, especially a lonely woman in a dreary marriage or one who herself feels like a misfit.

I loved the creature in The Shape of Water, who also had an ET thing going for him. His weird gurgles were so poignant! Even though he’s so slimy and fishy, when he stands to his full height and wraps his whatever-they-are around his enthralled love object, he is Cary Grant, and then some.

Mrs. Caliban’s green lover, Larry, is also irresistible.

What is it we want, ladies, that resonates so effectively in the Green Stranger?

Is it the innocence, the purity of purpose, the gentleness? Is it the otherness itself? Or is it that he’s a good listener?

In the movie, he can’t speak. Think about it. No mansplaining. Ever. No criticism! No one to say, “Could you please remember to put the cheese back in the fridge and seal the bag properly?”

Is it the fact that he’s probably never had a woman before you, so you are the best fuck ever? I’m just throwing that out there as I explore this, okay? I already know I’m the best fuck ever, but some people might worry about that kind of thing.

Let’s get back to the listening. A Green Stranger who stares into your eyes and understands you, isn’t bored by you, isn’t checking a device or butting in with his devil’s advocate shit…how good is that?? He is a child, a lover, a protector, a best friend, and he’s able to love with his whole heart.

I am thrilled to report that Mrs. Caliban (by Rachel Ingalls) is now back in print, and a million online reviews are calling it a lost treasure. I didn’t know it was lost, but now it’s back and I think you should read it. After all these year, it remains in my memory like a haunting, glimmering dream. A bonus for completists is that her other books are good, too.

Okay, some of you have reminded me that I don’t need to be a hero or activist to be okay. That seems fair. I’m lowering the bar for me and for everyone else. For those of us suffering from a life-changing trauma, getting out of bed and going through the motions are commendable.

I remained upright to take care of my younger son, to see him graduate high school, go off to college, fall in love and get married. I survived a crazy hate mob of trolls. I learned something about forgiveness. Not everything but something. I have bonded with readers of this blog who offered comfort or shared their own stories. These connections are like little miracles.

So you know, I take back the stuff about being worthless. I will marvel at people who make an effort to change the world when their own world has collapsed. I’m just not a doer. I’m better at communicating through writing. I’m better one-on-one.

I’m good at being preachy. I’m good at urging people to stop shaming addicts and to treat them lovingly, with compassion. I’m good at calming people who are frantic with anxiety and depression.

I’m good at styling people who go shopping with me. I’m good at making them over in my own image. I’m good at advising on red lipstick and steering people away from Zara. I’m good at finding silk pajamas at Salvation Army shops. I’m good at affecting obscure accents in public. I’m good at giving compliments. I make great roast chicken.

I think that’s it for now. I’m okay, alright? I’m going to limit self-deprecation to special occasions. Like my birthday, coming up next week.

Thanks for being the wind or the wings or however it goes! Thanks for being here. xo

I’ve read that the first four years are the hardest. And you are most at risk to kill yourself.

I’m still here. That can be tough to excuse or justify.

I’ve lit my candle. It’s only right to thank the people who lit candles five years ago when I asked them to.

So thank you. It really helped.

xoxoxo