progress in technicolor (1996)

as a kid i loved numbers.

i’d check myself out in the visor mirror of our minivan and count 86 drops of God’s taupe paint splattered across my nose and rosy cheeks.

i also loved the color green, so much in fact that my catholic teachers didn't have green paint on my first day of preschool, i was inconsolable, ready to go postal and sin all over the walls in any color i could find.

my mom put me on her hip, her loving arms like a hero’s cape wrapping around to keep me safe and warm. she kissed my freckled face and said,

“let’s try again tomorrow.”

sixteen years and nine months later i am one month into twenty one.

the childhood obsession turned into a calculator and calendar that never, ever, ever stops ticking and clicking along, tracking progress and purgatories like

10 days since my last orgasm//12 pounds in the last 12 weeks// 1272 days since i was violated in a movie theater// 764 days since the last time i let red run out my limbs//1576 days since i woke up when i explicitly tried not to//9 days down in treatment//11 left to go

my mother is driving me home from the hospital

she says

“being bipolar is nothing to be ashamed of.

i will always love you and your sensitivity

and the way your cracks let the light in”

i say

“mom i’m not just bipolar, it’s PTSD and anxiety and depression and eating disorders, it’s the fear of abusers finding me, the fear of love leaving me alone too long, the realities of not feeling supported in damn near any of it

mom i’m not just bipolar i’m bisexual”

four minutes of silence.

she pulls into Target, pulls in a deep breath and says,

“so you aren’t telling anyone else, including your father and brother and your sister and especially my parents, right?

because you know you can’t.”

and walked in with her breathless daughter four feet behind.

three weeks later cancer killed my dog

three days later i damn near flip a table

after slurs are passed when i asked for garlic bread

so I moved in with the man i loved

so instead of filling my days with solely crying all the time over the death of my favorite perfect girl, with a heart of gold and glistening fur to match,

i rediscovered how much i loved green,

realized that some greens were Blue Dreams

a lot of good greens had purple or orange

and hey, say what you will about grief,

but the relief this brought was needed.

If my loving is a sin worth damnation,

what’s the devils lettuce really matter

if it pushes away my hell on earth?

i breathed in the colors and breathed in his love for years going on forever until the day came when neither were sacred.

the days he hurt me were suffocatingly dark, and the winter after he left was the longest coldest and greyest i’ve ever known.

this is the first time the calendar stopped.

when i woke up and knew what day it was, i decided to finally talk to the rest of my family and come out, fear be damned,

and they were surprisingly okay.

they wouldn’t fly a rainbow flag at their home for me

or paint their nails blue and pink and purple with me

but when i came out to them one on one, they all said

“as long as they don’t hurt you, they’re fine with me”

and that was fine with me.

my mom is my friend and protector again, thank goodness.

she still loves God with more confidence than her children some days

but now actually gives a shit about what courts and senators do,

loves and listens to me when i’m hurting and healing and happy,

and would likely burn Leviticus if given the chance.

the love i have now helps me soar when i’m happy

and catches me when i’m falling

but i’ve been my own hero for a while now

I’m so proud to be me, to own my radiance and darkness

and to be able to fight for me

every single day.