I’m an only child and I don’t know how to share. It’s not that I don’t share. I do. It’s more that it doesn’t come naturally and I constantly have to check myself, are you sharing? I have to remind myself when it would be a good time to share, and sometimes I forget. Sometimes I don’t want to, and I have to make myself. And because sharing isn’t a natural impulse of mine, it doesn’t feel comfortable or free. A voice comes on saying, it’s going to look bad if you don’t offer that around, and so I do. Will you believe me if I tell you that I am damn embarrassed by the fact that when I share it’s a PR move, not a selfless act? Or are you rolling your eyes in disgust at this typical only child behavior? I agree with you, it’s gross. Continue reading
In the full daylight of 7:30 a.m. on Tuesday, September 11, 2001 I slept the deep, tunneled in, wake-me-and-die sleep of the depressed. My mom’s voice began to come through my bedroom door, joined by that of my boyfriend’s–a surprise since he had no car and rarely showed up of his own volition. They knocked, then walked right in as I struggled to gain consciousness and go back to sleep all at once. Sleeping my activity of choice when I wasn’t working or at school, I resented the intrusion and bristled, scowling at them from my cozy den. I wasn’t a morning person, and they both knew it. I was not friendly or even really coherent before my first cup of coffee, preferring silence for the first hour or so of wakefulness before the more reasonable hour of 10 a.m.
“Ryan’s here,” my mom, Captain Obvious, began, her brow furrowed, manner grave. “New York has been attacked, it’s all over the news. Why don’t you get up and watch with us.” Ryan towered over her in my doorway, wringing his hands, face ashen. “I ran all the way here,” he said. “I told him he should come over immediately,” my mom continued, “because we don’t know what’s going on yet, or if something more will happen.” Continue reading