instead of self-harming, i partied in lucille clifton's house

in the five days before getting on a plane from Seattle to Baltimore for the annual Association of Writers & Writing Programs (AWP) conference, i had two emergency sessions with my therapist, because in the five years since the last time i self-harmed, i had never been so close to calling it quits on recovery, driving to my nearest pharmacy, and buying a pack of Gillettes.

but — because i am five years in self-harm recovery — before i do things like drive to my nearest pharmacy to buy a pack of Gillettes, i do healthy, responsible things, like email my therapist.

to be completely transparent, i wasn’t convinced that i’d make it through the week without succumbing to the urges. i often talk about how, for me, there is a difference between having the desire to self-harm and the urge to self-harm (i often have urges, but not the desire), and in the last few weeks i’ve had both the urge and the desire. i found myself mentally preparing myself to tell my husband and my friends — and eventually, the entire audience i’ve built in part by writing about self-harm recovery — that i’d relapsed*, and the inevitable worry and disappointment that would follow.

i knew going to AWP would be a useful distraction, and also, i know that high-stress environments often send my urges sky-high. ultimatley, i didn’t have high hopes for myself upon arriving in Baltimore. i expected to return home armed with a confession.

that was, until, the first night of AWP, when i climbed into an uber with friends to go to a party at lucille clifton’s house.

a quick segue, as i’ve been recently made aware that fewer people know about lucille clifton than i thought (and not to call out any of my readers, but 99% of these people i have talked to who don’t know who she is have been white — so sorry to say — but i suppose it makes sense).

so if you need the context: lucille clifton is a prolific Black poet. she is a cancer, because of course she is (which feels important to mention, coming from another Black, cancer poet).

i won’t go on to explain her endless accomplishments and critical acclaim, because you can do the research. just know that she means a lot to Black poets, and Black folk, specifically. she gave me permission to write in lowercase, and taught me why that craft decision can be useful in my storytelling as a poet. reading clifton’s work taught me how to be unapologetic and brave in my own. i owe so much to her. we all do.

being in her house felt spiritual. learning the house’s history from her daughter, Sydney, felt like hearing the gospels for the first time. (this may sound like hyperbole, reader, but i promise, it is not.)

i can’t believe i’m here, i kept thinking, standing in her living room, surrounded by her books. i can’t believe staying alive meant that i get to be in lucille clifton’s house with some of my favorite people and authors on this planet.

in The Clifton House, with a cup of wine in hand and the DJ playing Whitney’s I’m Every Woman, i forgot how badly i wanted to hurt myself. dancing with Chantel & Alisha & Mia & February & Danez & Rodrick &, &, &, our sweat splashing each other again and again like little sentient baptisms, i remembered how happy i was to be alive. i remembered that i didn’t need to hurt myself to feel something; i didn’t need to open a new wound to force healing. this night, in its entirety, was a resurrection.

so, when Edythe said, this feels like that moment in Sinners, i knew exactly what she meant. when Mia said tonight is a movie, i felt exactly what they felt.

in lucille and her husband fred’s bedroom, above lucille’s desk, hung a framed print of her poem birth-day. i’d post the photo i took of the poem here, but that experience — that noticing — was so intimate for me that it would feel like posting a nude (yes, reader, this sounds insane, especially as i have had no issue posting lewd photos of myself in the past).

this poem, however, is One of The Poems That Kept Me Alive when i was a sad teenager, a sad young adult, a still-healing adult. i remember, specifically, how transformational it felt reading it on my 20th birthday (a decade ago, now) — one of the hardest milestone birthdays to date — coming fresh off the heels of my attempts on my own life at 16, 17, and 18.

re-reading birth-day, for the first time in a long time, in the home of the woman who wrote it, felt like the entire universe, every alternate universe, all my past selves, and all my future selves, grabbing my limbs to say, we are still possible.

i fell asleep that night wanting to become (while also, simultaneously thinking of the great Andrea Gibson’s words, it hurts to become). as i slept, the urge to hurt myself disappeared like a dream, and so did the desire. i imagine, someday soon, they will both return, and i imagine, someday soon, i will struggle to fight them.

and then, i will remember the beautiful consequence of staying alive, the joy that comes when i don’t hurt myself, when i allow myself to be filled with song and dance and poetry and love. what we will become / waits in us like an ache, says clifton.

i am aching, always. i am so, so grateful to notice it.

*i don’t always love this term, but am using it in this context because it’s how my brain processed it

won’t you celebrate with me by lucille clifton

MUSCLE MEMORY by BLÜ EYES unsurprisingly has me in a chokehold, currently, as do all of her songs about chronic illness and mental health. (the embed code is being wonky and not wanting to load here — so sorry!)

all the love, all the warmth, all the light,

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who i am: a writer, a lover, and a very Black + queer person. i love deeply, forget rarely, and spend most of my time cuddling with my dog, my cat, and my partner.

who i'm not: a therapist, mental health professional, or emergency service. i love hearing the stories of your experiences, but please don't send explicit or triggering details of your story without my prior consent.

if you're in crisis, please call 911 or use any of the following resources:

• National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 988

• National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-SAFE (7233)

• Crisis Text Line: Text HELP to 741741

• S.A.F.E. (Self Abuse Finally Ends): 1-800-DONT-CUT (366-8288)

• Eating Disorders Awareness and Prevention: 1-800-931-2237

• RAINN (Rape, Abuse, & Incest National Network): 1-800-656-4673