Be Your Own Light

*I've stopped having a nervous breakdown--at least in this newsletter

Dear Reader,

*I’ve stopped having a nervous breakdown, and, at least for now, I want you to know I am a bit of a sucker for change overs, new years, and anything to do with shedding and rebirth.

Is this a justification for an expensive facial or the impending hope for the new year? I suspect it’s the former, but we’ll pretend to be ambiguous.

New Year’s Eve, out of all the holidays, carries more lore for me than any of the other ones. My father, Seasoned Alcoholic, used to call NYE Amateur Night.

I used to believe in drinking until I threw up. No one told me (or showed me) that my brain could stop me from drinking, rather, I waited for my body to give out. To skim the surface of an after school special, I drank so much because I wanted to fit in and because I believed I was a better person who more people liked with a few drinks in me AND because I lived in an enabling culture. Sober Stephanie is the Kind of Anxious That Makes People Uncomfortable but Drunk Stephanie is Fun Stephanie. Alcohol was available and accessible in my family, and everyone else seemed to be having a great time, and that’s what I wanted for myself. I wanted to have a good time, goddamn it.

In high school, I was in a hot tub on a weeknight with a bunch of people (long story), and we were playing Truth or Dare, and this guy was like, “How come you are a completely different person when you’re drinking?” And I said, “I’m currently growing up in a dysfunctional family. For example, I’ll wake up tomorrow and tell my father with whom I am currently living because I had to leave my mom and abusive stepfather that I don’t want to go to school today because I have a headache, and he’ll be like, sure that’s fine, because you are not allowed to question your children’s headaches when you drink yourself to sleep each night.” And this guy said, “Everyone has a dysfunctional family, you’re not special.” And I said, “Now we both have to take a shot.”

That was my thing. Taking shots. Straight shots. Mixed shots. Shots, shots, shots, shots, shots, shots. Chaser. Shots, shots, shots, shots. You take a shot, I take a shot, we all take shots, infinity.

If you think this is moving toward some rock bottom where I announce I’ve been sober for 20 years, you are wrong. I still drink. I don’t like beer except once every ten years I’ll drink a glass of something light on a hot day. I mostly drink wine in social settings, not more than two glasses. If it’s truly a party, I’ll throw in some sort of vodka cocktail. Honestly, the older I get, anything more than two drinks puts me out the next day.

Is that progress? I can cut myself off now?

We’re still knee deep in remodel, and since I work from home, I’m the one opening the door and letting the workers in who sometimes share notes and whatever with me about their plans for the day and, like, not trying to hold up the uninformed female stereotype about construction, but I don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about. So these guys are like, “This is a J-Cut Kaboom Bazooka but we can’t Shimmy the Shims until Buzzer Boony is complete,” and I’m like, “I have one skill,” then I wave my hands around the downstairs which is ripped up, “which is not this.” And the guys are like, “Well, what is your skill? Can you articulate it?” And I’m like, “I grew up in a dysfunctional family, and I’m very good at analyzing my past choices and hiding apologies to myself and other people I’ve hurt in short stories and novels and/or sometimes outright essays that get published in The Sun, but I make money doing data entry.” And they’re like, “Super interesting that you didn’t have a backup career for your life,” and I’m like, “Preach, Son.”

So, yeah. I’m addicted to social media. If you follow me on IG and follow my stories, you’ll know I’ve unraveled. I scroll and scroll. I can’t focus on anything anymore. I’ve checked BlueSky eight times since I started writing this, and nothing is even going on over there. Social media is a numbing tool like alcohol. Can I learn to cut myself off?

My daughter will be 10 in 2025. What? I know.

Next year, and for many years, I know I’ll have to make a lot of phone calls to my senators. I know I’ll end up screaming on social media, but I’m going to try to scream about things that happen instead of things that might happen? This is a real question.

Every year I’m like, this is the year I’ll publish a novel, and every year I’m like, maybe next year is the year I’ll publish a novel. I used to want to be cremated, but now maybe I’ll do one of those natural burials. Put my body in the earth and let the mushrooms take over. I don’t want to be buried with jewels or furs (I don’t have any furs), instead, bury me with the three manuscripts I’ve written over the last 20 years. Print those manuscripts out and secure them to my cold, rigored hands. After the robots excavate my bones, when they are teaching their children about the great philosophers of the Human Era, I want them to hold up my manuscripts as Great and Complex Art. The AI will be like, “Human brains acted against their own self interests.” And the robot children will repeat, “Dysfunctional families, man.”

I moved over to Substack after TinyLetter shuttered (which still makes me sad, and now I hear people muttering about how we should all leave Substack, and, like, I don’t know what’s left?) but I started TinyLetter to promote my book, and now it’s morphed into…whatever it is this is now. Lots of Substack people are helping you write, giving you publishing tips and inside info, providing a community, and I feel like I’m just projecting anxiety and sadness? I’ve got to do some shaping here. I promise I’m going to try to get my shit together.

Last thing. I’m exceedingly behind in reading short pieces the last few months, but I finally cracked open the Oxford American with my friend Josie Tolin’s story in it. Josie and I were in a workshop a few years back, and I promise you this story has the kind of layers you will think about for a long time. Check it out here: Freezer Songs

Yours in Making an Attempt to Break the Surface,

Stephanie