Self-portrait through hydrangeas

I’ve had a debilitating existential crisis or two in my time, but not in the summer.

Like Aesop’s industrious ant that stores grain for the winter, summer is my season to stockpile sunshine and fortitude to get me through to the following spring. I’m not being melodramatic. It’s less dire now than it was before therapy and antidepressants. But still.

Summer is hope, glory, joy. I love summer. For me, it’s always better to be hot—no matter how scalding—than cold.

While I may remark on the hotness of the heat, I don’t complain, solely and precisely because I want the right to complain bitterly all winter. I take the cold personally. I believe you get one season to whine as much as you want, and I’m zero percent interested in shutting up in winter.

Other people can do as they wish. It’s just part of my personal code of ethics.

But this summer.

Two things are going on. Or maybe three. Or fifteen. Hard to say.

To start with, the kids are gone. I mentioned this to a couple friends earlier in the summer, and said I think it’s that I’m so used to caretaking that I’m just not sure who I am when I’m not. One of them said, but your kids go away every summer. And I was like yes, but.

It’s true that they go to camp every summer, but until three years ago, my mom was at home, and we spent a lot of time together. And then Betty died, and I couldn’t handle being home without her, and I fled. I’ve been lucky enough to travel much of the last three summers. I haven’t been home to be who I am without any of them.

But this summer.

The planet is on fire, and, because DC is built on an actual swamp, our humidity is brutal. Because it’s been so hot, our air conditioners have been struggling, even with fans blowing down every hallway.

For a stretch of time we kept all the interior shutters closed night and day.

There was a solid week where we didn’t open them a crack, and I only went out when necessary. I’d go to the gym in the morning, and then at intervals throughout the day, Wanda and I would slog through soupy air around the block. We’d return home to collapse gratefully in the crepuscule.

Generally, if the sun’s out, I want to be out. But the heat was too extreme even for me. And then we had a couple days of wildfire terrible air quality as well.

So I’ve had a lot of twilighty alone time. Nick asked if I get lonesome, and honestly, I don’t. I’m mainly lonesome when I’m stuck in a situation with people I can’t connect to. This is also the only time I’m bored.

I’m an introvert. Left to my own devices, I’m good.

Usually, when I’m going through something, I figure it out by writing. This helps me sort myself out, and I connect with other people over it, and it makes me feel less alone in whatever it is.

But this summer.

I couldn’t write. (Well, actually, I have been writing, but fiction. It’s fun, but it was not helping me with my existential crisis.)

The main problem was, I was paralyzed. I was still doing all the practical house and dog things, and even teaching classes at the gym. But those were all physical. Emotionally, I was stuck.

Basically, I was feeling so much everything all at once that I couldn’t even find a starting point to identify my issue. Emotionally it was like I was faced with an old tote bag filled with yarn that I needed to untangle before I could start my project. This was rough wool maroon yarn snarled in such a horrendous mass that I couldn’t locate an end to start untangling.

Some people might just grab a scissors and snip. But this is not my personality.

I can’t tell you why this imaginary yarn was maroon. It just was. I recently read something that asked: What color is the number 7 and what color is July? And I was immediately like, 7 is green and July is yellow. I don’t know why.

Anyway, some days I felt like I was watching my life from outside myself. This is apparently called dissociating, and it’s something I’ve done all my life, but didn’t know the term. One day I felt like I was about to float a couple feet above myself, and I had to make a concerted effort not to disconnect from my corporeal body.

I’m not talking about feeling suicidal. This is different. It wasn’t a desire to leave, or a desire to not be—both of which I’ve had. It was like I was going float out of myself unless I held firmly.

It was extremely disconcerting.

But most days I was like I hate this bag of yarn! IT IS HOT AND ITCHY AND CONFUSING AND NOT A SUMMER COLOR OR FIBER!

When I wasn’t feeling removed, I felt confused and inadequate. I wondered what my point here was.

Recently, I saw my chiropractor/energy healer, because my back was really hurting. She asked what was going on with me emotionally. She made me breathe and tell her what thoughts or images appeared.

So I told her that without my kids, I don’t know who I am.

She suggested I think back to who I was before marriage and kids. I had time—what did I like to do? I need to get back to that to remember what I like for myself.

She was like, you have to figure this out, because it’s going to be the rest of your life. You don’t want to be one of those mothers who doesn’t let their kids grow up and become self-sufficient adults just because you need to mother them.

She’s nurturing, but she’s also Russian. She just flat out says these things.

And though it was harsh, I agree with her. Our goal in raising our kids is for them to eventually leave us and have the confidence to follow their own paths out in the world. Not that they won’t need us—but we need to not need them.

Raising my kids, I see how much I was not raised to do this.

Yes, I was my own whole adult human who had a job and bought an apartment and paid bills all by myself…and I was so tightly tethered to my parents. I kept needing them, and they kept needing me.

The conclusion I’ve come to is that I’m only who I am in relation to other people. I don’t think I’ve ever had an identity just for myself.

In 2007, when I first wrote about my dad’s suicide attempts, I called our secret the thing that most defined me but was not about me. I think about how sad that is.

Not long ago, I was complaining to my therapist about how Nick doesn’t eat vegetables, and how I have to cajole both Jordan and him to just eat like three damn slices of a green pepper, and I find the whole thing exhausting.

She was like, it’s not your job to keep Nick alive. He’s going to eat what he’s going to eat, and he will exercise or not, but these are his choices. You might disagree with his choices, but they are not you responsibility.

She said: you worked really hard to keep your dad alive, and you worked really hard to keep your mom alive. But the only people you’re actually responsible for keeping alive are your children.

Capable adults—and Nick is very capable—are responsible for themselves.

Maybe you knew this. For me, it was revelatory.

My therapist was right. I’d spent a portion of my childhood worried about my dad’s well-being. I spent a chunk of my adult life actively working to keep him alive. And then, when he died, I took my mom on as my full responsibility.

I was raised to do this, and by choice I did this. Both.

So this summer. Has been rough.

I’m not in crisis like I’m going to run out and buy a really expensive fast car or find a lover half my age or whatever.

One, I like our car, and we don’t have the budget for a second one, and also, I cannot handle the level of hysteria that getting pulled over for “unreasonable speed” sends me into.

And even if I were single, I couldn’t sleep with someone new. I wait for my hydrating moisture cream to sink in, and then I paste wrinkle patches across my forehead. And then I put in my night guard. I need a fan approximately a foot from my side of the bed blasting directly on my body, but I also need a heavy blankie.

I’m not the person I was when I was single. And also, I want to stay married to my first husband. (Sorry, Nick. And you’d be so bored without me. So also, you’re welcome.)

Anyway, now that I have a starting point with the annoyingly itchy bag of knots, it means I can start to untangle it.

Do most other people have a firm grip on who they are? Are things harder for me than other people? Why is everything such a process?