Leaving Isn't the Hardest Thing(82)
Apocalypse never meant the end. It’s called Revelation for a reason—the unveiling of the truth. When we finally realize the systems and institutions we’ve been told exist to protect us are designed to control us. When those systems fail, and the truth is unmasked, they have no real power, and we outnumber them. We always have.
That home in Switzerland where I burned books with Tom did get raided. We were long gone, all the kids packed into vans in the dead of night, driven around for twelve hours, making nonsensical turns to shake anyone tailing us. We ended up in an old hostel in the mountains. The drivers dropped us and our go-bags, and left to pick up another load, maybe the younger kids. I don’t remember. I remember there were about thirty of us JETTS, the Junior End Time Teens, and two adults. When we woke up the next morning, the pasture and trees behind the hostel were covered in a foot of snow like a fairy tale. I don’t think anyone said a word. We all just filed down the stairs, pulled our jackets and boots on, single file out the door, through the cow gate, and we held a massive, loud, boisterous snowball fight in the pasture. One of the adults came outside to collect us and we just kept playing. Fuck him.
Sounds like a small thing. But for Family kids, who never walk past a street-facing window during the day, never raise their voices if they’re allowed to speak at all, never play at violence, and never, ever disobey an authority, it was a fucking prison riot.
We realized, if only that one morning, they had no power. The same holds true now. They only have power because we believe, because they’ve taught us to need them.
Those are the moments I’m proud of. The times I saw through them. The times I made them work to break me, even though I knew they would. The times I questioned the lies being fed to me, though everyone around me believed. I learned early that if everyone around you has their head bowed, their eyes shut tight—keep your eyes open and look around.
I’m reflexively suspicious of anyone who stands on a soapbox. Tell me you have the answers and I’ll know you’re trying to sell me something. I’m as wary of certainty as I am of good vibes and positive thinking. They’re delusions that allow you to ignore reality and lay the blame at the feet of those suffering. They just didn’t follow the rules, or think positively enough. They brought it on themselves.
I don’t have the answers. Maybe depression’s the natural reaction to a world full of cruelty and pain. But the thing I know about depression is if you want to survive it, you have to train yourself to hold on; when you can see no reason to keep going, you cannot imagine a future worth seeing, you keep moving anyway. That’s not delusion. That’s hope. It’s a muscle you exercise so it’s strong when you need it. You feed it with books and art and dogs who rest their head on your leg, and human connection with people who are genuinely interested and excited; you feed it with growing a tomato and baking sourdough and making a baby laugh and standing at the edge of oceans and feeling a horse’s whiskers on your palm and bear hugs and late-night talks over whiskey and a warm happy sigh on your neck and the unexpected perfect song on the radio, and mushroom trips with a friend who giggles at the way the trees aren’t acting right, and jumping in creeks, and lying in the grass under the stars, and driving with the windows down on a swirly two-lane road. You stock up like a fucking prepper buying tubs of chipped beef and powdered milk and ammo. You stock up so some part of you knows and remembers, even in the dark, all that’s worth saving in this world.
It’s comforting to know what happens next. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that no one fucking knows. And it’s terrifying.
I don’t dream of a home and a family, a career and financial stability. I dream of living. And my inner voice, defective though it may be, still tells me happiness and peace, belonging and love, all lie just around the next corner, the next city, the next country. Just keep moving and hope the next place will be better. It has to be. Just around the next bend, everything is beautiful. And it breaks my heart.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my absolute force of an agent Jamie Chambliss, who found me when I was flailing, who believes in me when I lose faith, who always finds a story in my rambling words, who makes me believe I can write—for your incisive editing, for your infuriating queries, for your friendship, I am forever in your debt. To my agent Steve Troha for telling me to make it funnier, for always answering my panicked texts, for fighting my battles, and for only laughing a little bit when I fell on my ass and broke my phone, thank you. Thank you to the team at Folio.
Tim O’Connell, my editor at Vintage, who took a chance on me and convinced me to write in essays. Thank you for your faith in me, for your patience and keen edits, for insisting I mention the fucking giraffe. It’s been an honor, truly. To Anna Kaufman and Rob Shapiro, thank you for your notes, for keeping me on something of a schedule, for answering my endless questions. Reagan Arthur, thank you for believing in me and for pretending you don’t see half my tweets. A huge thank-you to the entire team who worked to make this book happen: my publicist, Julie Ertl; Dan Novack; Mark Abrams—thank you for my amazing cover design; Nick Alguire; Edward Allen; Beth Lamb; Suzanne Herz; LuAnn Walther; Antoinette Marotta; Melissa Yoon; Barbara Richard; and Jessica Deitcher.
I am grateful for Sandra Newman, who took me seriously long before I considered myself a real writer. For your encouragement, for always being willing to read another draft, for your notes, for talking me off more than a few ledges, thank you. I am honored by your friendship. Howard Mittelmark, who can somehow edit me without breaking me, who always makes me sound and sometimes even makes me feel a little smarter, thank you. Elizabeth McCracken, I will never comprehend your kindness. For guiding me and mentoring me and believing in me, for your constant encouragement, I cannot possibly express my gratitude except to say thank you. I would consider myself forever indebted, if it weren’t for Pandemic Cat.