rising water starts to seep under your door, you canât keep pretending that your world is not flooding.
S INKING
A
PRIL 19, 1996
The first morning back in Ohio, I woke at 11 a.m., once again disoriented from a deadened sleep. I had slept for twelve hours, but felt like Iâd merely blinked. I couldnât fathom ever getting out of bed.
At 11:30, I still lay in bed not moving. I had no idea what to do. Every move I made felt off, wrong, awkward, strange. I had felt some version of this malaise my whole life, but now it had officially taken over. I craved stillness, silence, and darkness. I spent much of that first morning in Ohio with a pillow over my face. I could not bear that I had failed in New York and returned to my childhood home.
Eventually I heard the gentle click of my mom opening my bedroom door. She tiptoed in with toast and juice, placing them quietly on my bedside table. I craved solitude and wanted her to leave. Instead she sat down on the edge of my bed and put her hand on my hip. The touch made me flinch.
âHoney?â she said.
âWhat,â I mumbled. She pulled the pillow up a bit. I fought the urge to bat away her hand.
âIâm going out to lunch with Lynn Sears. Iâve had it planned for a while and I just canât cancel. Will you be okay?â
âYes,â I said, both annoyed and grateful that she was leaving. I wondered if she was imagining me tossing a hair dryer in the bathtub. âIâll be fine.â
âSo,â she paused, as if what she was going to say next needed careful phrasing. âSo . . . what are you going to do today?â
In hindsight, I can see that she was doing all she could to be kind to me. A simple check-in. Just making conversation. But I picked up the pillow and threw it at her. She blocked it with her arm, but the corner of it smacked her cheek. I sneered and said, âMom, just fucking go.â She stood up, turned, and walked away.
I rolled over, shaking. This was our pattern. She showed up, and I punished her. She tried tenderness, but her well-intentioned attempts misfired. She had the distinct dishonor of perpetually saying the exact wrong thing, no matter the words, and suffering the wrath of my pain and anger.
As was her custom, she left silently, carefully. I heard her car pulling away followed by the thud of the garage door closing. Her departure brought a swirl of guilt, relief, and despair, enough emotion to lull me back into a deep, black sleep. What relief sleep had become. As I drifted down I wished with clear, longing intention to sleep for an eternity.
 â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â
If fate works the way I think it does, I am pretty sure that at this point, my puppy was sleeping a lot too. His mama was licking his ears clean, her warm, dry tongue a lucky blanket. He could only suckle and sleep. Itâs not easy, the hard work of being a newborn puppy. He got stepped on, squished, beaten to the last available teat. He needed his mother desperately, and she was exhausted. He was blind and hungry, aided only by his nose toward the scent of sustenance. He could clumsily crawl, his eyes couldnât open, but he knew that if he stayed safe and warm with his family, if he slept as much as he needed to sleep, he would be okay.
I believe that when Bunker and I were both helpless against the challenges of life, when we both needed unconditional love or would die, our mothers showed up and did what mothers do. They do everything they can to save their children.
B LA RNEY
1982
After Midnight died, my parents decided we should get a purebred puppy. We researched breeds and agreed that an Irish setter would be a good fit for our family. We brought Blarney home when I was about nine years old. She was a little nut-brown puppy, all legs and plate-wide feet, and she would curl up and sleep in the bend of my legs. In between random bursts of goofy puppy energy, she was quiet and timid, and I
S INKING
A
PRIL 19, 1996
The first morning back in Ohio, I woke at 11 a.m., once again disoriented from a deadened sleep. I had slept for twelve hours, but felt like Iâd merely blinked. I couldnât fathom ever getting out of bed.
At 11:30, I still lay in bed not moving. I had no idea what to do. Every move I made felt off, wrong, awkward, strange. I had felt some version of this malaise my whole life, but now it had officially taken over. I craved stillness, silence, and darkness. I spent much of that first morning in Ohio with a pillow over my face. I could not bear that I had failed in New York and returned to my childhood home.
Eventually I heard the gentle click of my mom opening my bedroom door. She tiptoed in with toast and juice, placing them quietly on my bedside table. I craved solitude and wanted her to leave. Instead she sat down on the edge of my bed and put her hand on my hip. The touch made me flinch.
âHoney?â she said.
âWhat,â I mumbled. She pulled the pillow up a bit. I fought the urge to bat away her hand.
âIâm going out to lunch with Lynn Sears. Iâve had it planned for a while and I just canât cancel. Will you be okay?â
âYes,â I said, both annoyed and grateful that she was leaving. I wondered if she was imagining me tossing a hair dryer in the bathtub. âIâll be fine.â
âSo,â she paused, as if what she was going to say next needed careful phrasing. âSo . . . what are you going to do today?â
In hindsight, I can see that she was doing all she could to be kind to me. A simple check-in. Just making conversation. But I picked up the pillow and threw it at her. She blocked it with her arm, but the corner of it smacked her cheek. I sneered and said, âMom, just fucking go.â She stood up, turned, and walked away.
I rolled over, shaking. This was our pattern. She showed up, and I punished her. She tried tenderness, but her well-intentioned attempts misfired. She had the distinct dishonor of perpetually saying the exact wrong thing, no matter the words, and suffering the wrath of my pain and anger.
As was her custom, she left silently, carefully. I heard her car pulling away followed by the thud of the garage door closing. Her departure brought a swirl of guilt, relief, and despair, enough emotion to lull me back into a deep, black sleep. What relief sleep had become. As I drifted down I wished with clear, longing intention to sleep for an eternity.
 â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â
If fate works the way I think it does, I am pretty sure that at this point, my puppy was sleeping a lot too. His mama was licking his ears clean, her warm, dry tongue a lucky blanket. He could only suckle and sleep. Itâs not easy, the hard work of being a newborn puppy. He got stepped on, squished, beaten to the last available teat. He needed his mother desperately, and she was exhausted. He was blind and hungry, aided only by his nose toward the scent of sustenance. He could clumsily crawl, his eyes couldnât open, but he knew that if he stayed safe and warm with his family, if he slept as much as he needed to sleep, he would be okay.
I believe that when Bunker and I were both helpless against the challenges of life, when we both needed unconditional love or would die, our mothers showed up and did what mothers do. They do everything they can to save their children.
B LA RNEY
1982
After Midnight died, my parents decided we should get a purebred puppy. We researched breeds and agreed that an Irish setter would be a good fit for our family. We brought Blarney home when I was about nine years old. She was a little nut-brown puppy, all legs and plate-wide feet, and she would curl up and sleep in the bend of my legs. In between random bursts of goofy puppy energy, she was quiet and timid, and I
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