68. The Week in Me
Thank you for ALL OF THE TEXTS YOU PEOPLE ARE SO NICE??!!.
When I showed Matt, my loyal and loving and hysterical Matt, the tawny frogmouth at the top of last week’s letter, his brow furrowed in sadness as he observed the photo in a momentous pause (rare for the man) and said “I HOPE that’s not you right now.”
But it was.
The night you received the last newsletter, I hit publish and laid back on my pillow (you see, I hadn’t left the bed). I cried as I had been since 10pm Thursday and would continue to do so until…who knows, maybe even now (it’s Saturday as I write this). Maybe any TK’s I’ve thrown into this post draft stand for Tears Koming. To feel1 betrayed, fooled, indifferenced to by someone you care about, consider in your decisions, have come to know and love and want by your side whether that’s a friend or a relative or a *Rachel Dratch voice* LOVAHHH…it’s reductive to say it hurts.
When I was six or so, my mother signed me up to play soccer. After a childhood of (mis)diagnoses and spring days playing word games with my three tutors on retainer to address my toddlerhood brain trauma and Columbia gastroenterology experts, my mother was desperate to make sure I matriculated into as normal a childhood as possible. I spent my brief soccer career in a shirt that I could have tripped over, plucking dandelions on the field and waving to my parents in the bleachers. One day, the last day I ever played soccer, like I don’t even remember what the rules are now, a coach demonstrated a winding, curved kick and kicked the soccer ball right into my little throat. I remember it well. I could not breathe. When my breath bolstered its courage to return to me, it came in serrated sighs.
This is what’s last week felt like. Some Lincoln School classmate’s dad kicking a soccer ball into my fucking windpipe.
And you know who came to my rescue, just as she did then, threatening to beat someone’s ass?
MY. MOTHER.
You have to understand that all I want in life is to me mothered, and that my mother rarely mothers the way I need her to. I need to be held and coddled and cooed at and comforted. When I dropped out of my cousin’s baby shower on Saturday morning, when my dad was there and texted me to ask if I wanted to talk to my Great-Aunt Helen on the phone (I LOVE Great-Aunt Helen, she is FABULOUS in an Eastern Bloc Sylvia Fine way and I LOVE her) my mom knew something was wrong. She called. I burst into tears. I couldn’t hide it. And instead of what I feared - her calling me overdramatic, not listening, giving unhelpful commands, she sighed into the coo I have needed for a long time during these transitional last few months. “My baby. I’m so sorry.” And she listened. And she told me this person and their friends were assholes.
And then she tried to get me to go on Mounjaro again. Mothers will mother!
A note from Thursday: Hello, from the less distant past. Thank you for checking in, again. It got better, and then it got so much worse. This Tuesday was the second-worst night of my entire life, only beat by the August night I lost my best friend.
Someday I may laugh at this cat in this car, and I am including him here in the hopes that I will. But for today, seeing his keening wail calls to mind the terrible, terrible, triggering, two hour phone call, discalibration of my understanding of humanity and love, violent end to what I had ass-out-of-me assumed let-you-into-my-peace(ful) delights, I had in my parking garage after a fabulous night seeing an acquaintance in his Broadway debut and sitting in a packed Vanguard with Michael and Cynthia.
I’m real fucked up. I used the word “shattered” today. I’m disgusted, in shock, in cognitive dissonance…in love. Still. So again, thank you to the kind people who checked in:
The great
, great producer, great teacher, great connector, great friend. Dan read last week’s devastated letter and sent me a once-in-a-lifetime present, one I will never forget but one by which I should not have been surprised: after meeting him just one time, he hooked my dad and I up with tickets to see my dad’s favorite person, Jimmy Kimmel…and then Bruce Springsteen showed up. The mensch of mensches.My friend Rebecca, when I hopped on a working Zoom call:
Her heartbreak is not mine to share, so I will not name her, but my crying ceased for one brief moment to see a reader with whom I have never interacted send me this Venmo and these incredibly kind words:
To my new friend, please again reach out so I can make you a comped subscriber.
My dad.
Rebecca again:
Someone I have not talked to in a very long time, reminding me that I am still fucking funny:
To my longtime tumblr penpal
, what can I even say? Thank you for becoming my newest paid subscriber. I will never agree, but thank you.
My kind friend Nathan sent me this, and made me laugh:
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To listen:
Today is Friday and as of adding this to today’s edition I have listened to this song five times already. That number will increase.
To watch:
I recently featured the Folterkammer music video in which I appeared, and here is the behind-the-scenes featurette!
To read:
Do you know how PISSED I AM THAT I DIDN’T GET TO ATTEND THE BLUES BROTHERS THEMED SCIENTOLOGY IDEAL ORG OPENING IN CHICAGO? I am a cult expert2. I would have been nice!!! (And taken copious notes to send to
and and but the event planners didn’t ned to know that!!!!)I read some articles on polyamory this week that I found interesting.
“Polyamory gets more attention and legal protection.”
“Poly people just have a scheduling fetish.” I hollered. By Jennifer Wilson for The New Yorker.
If you want to read more about polyamory, I highly recommend
’s Many Love, which you can buy here.In somewhat related news, I watched the new Peacock reality show Couple to Throuple, which features existing couples partnering with a group of singles to explore nonmonogamy. The show is pioneering in its presentation of ENM (ethical nonmonogamy), but ultimately - per critiques I have been reading - narrow in its presentation of a hierarchical dynamic where the single is an ancillary joy or
I read this
poem at 6am after an emotional grueling day and my gasp at the end reminded me I can still feel, and I am still here.
“Drew Carey Has Found Closure After Former Fiancée’s Murder: ‘She’s with Me Always’.” I think about Amie Harwick so often. May this powerhouse of good be at rest, and may her memory be a blessing.
I really enjoy
’s careful essays on colonialism, art, and this one on aging:
This is literally just Simone:
This is literally just Lugosi:
Actually my babies:
Various and sundry:
Me this week basically:
Me walking basically:
From Mark: search for “121g” for a very me surprise at https://www.oreillyauto.com
From my friend Nick Miller:
Matt said this is me with the children and he is correct, also my little hairds are very sweet:
This used to say “be.” Now it says “feel.” There is a reason for that, TK.
I quote the HBO docuseries about NXIVM constantly.
Bless you for getting this out for us all even after a shitty week. We're all holding onto your fur till those dogs give it a rest. https://youtu.be/Fy29jBqckCo?si=Qrl50UzPaBQFsJH6
Tara Giancaspro: You show in your writing strong empathy and deep feeling and insight that we treasure, and you earn such respect and honor that we, your Friends in Media, feel WITH you (with NO pretense to know!).
We cannot help but wish to offer you some comfort in numbers who love your writing and share friendship in a time of sorrow.
I hope you have much LOVE in your life, as your writings show a good and thoughtful person, and you deserve to have persons in your life who love and care and can walk together with you with your burdens.
Bless you! Your writings have been a blessing to me!