The Things We Should Have Said

I cried in front of the acupuncturist when he asked me, “What’s going on?” His eyes were big and kind as he smiled behind his surgical mask. When I booked the appointment a month earlier, I was only looking for a way to spend an hour. As it turns out, a lot can happen in a month. There wasn’t a twinge of tightness in my neck, back, or shoulders, but an overwhelming sadness had settled in my chest. When I opened my mouth to answer him, I yelped like a scared puppy.

“I feel like I’ll cry if I tell you.”

“That’s okay.”

I told him a fraction of the truth: I quit my job of nine years to pursue freelancing only to discover I now associate my worth with productivity.

“It’s like I don’t know who I am anymore,” I said. “If I’m not constantly putting up with bullshit and struggling to prove myself all the time, then...who am I?”

I didn’t tell him about all the other stuff: the simmering dissatisfaction straight out of a Bruce Springsteen song; the 33-page essay on ELVIS I was struggling to finish; the crystal-clear certainty I would spend the weekend sobbing; the ongoing trauma of the last three relentless years.

“Listen,” he said, “you created a version of yourself to survive in your old environment, and now you have to let her go.” I pictured Peggy Olson at her typewriter with a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other. I saw her stiff collar and her stiffer hair. The victor. The survivor. The toughest person in the room born out of sheer necessity. A sideways glance from her could make a grown man feel frightened. I love Peggy Olson, I thought. I don’t want to let her go.

“You’re embarking on a new stage of your life,” said the acupuncturist. “The sun may be out in Los Angeles today, but we are in the middle of winter. Animals are hibernating. New growth is waiting beneath the surface of the soil. Winter is darkness, and darkness is where birth takes place. You are being born. You are birthing a new version of yourself. The version you created to survive the last nine years is gone. She’s dead. And you need to grieve.” If my life were a movie, this monologue could kick off the sequence where Protagonist Steff jumps into her pink Cadillac and goes speeding down Sunset Boulevard toward her wildest, sexiest dreams. Music-wise, I’m thinking Kate Bush. Maybe Florence and the Machine. Alas, I remained rooted in my soggy reality, letting my KN95 absorb my tears as they poured from my eyes. Thank God this man can’t see my snot, I thought.

Ironically, I’d love for a man to see my snot—to really see it and respect it—specifically snot he inspired with his crummy words and actions. I’d love for my tears to trigger feelings of warmth and regret instead of confusion and defensiveness. I’d love to hear, “I am so sorry I hurt you” instead of, “I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” as if the function of an apology is exoneration from liability.

Perhaps it’s natural for men to feel confused at the sight of tears. After all, men don’t cry because men are supposed to be rational—so rational they turn to violence when they don’t get their way. Perhaps seeing women cry fills some men with aching envy, and if a man envies a woman, he must not be a real man. This line of thinking necessitates a flipping of the proverbial script: I made her cry and that makes me uncomfortable; clearly, she’s insane. Not once in nine years did I cry in front of my dude boss(es). If I was stuck being The Girl, I at least wouldn’t be The Crazy Girl. Instead, I became the victor. The survivor. The toughest person in the room born out of sheer necessity. If it was time for her to die, it was going to take more than a few needles.

The last time I cried in front of a man who hurt me was last July during a weird breakup that took place between my sixth and seventh ELVIS viewings. Rather than let the man think I was crying because I was sad, I pointed to my wet face and declared, “These are angry tears. I am so angry at you.” I couldn’t believe that one measly week earlier, during a bona fide perfect date, I felt so comfortable around him that for one bright, shining moment, I nearly removed my emotional armor.

It was one of those July days when everyone was shiny; the air so thick it was practically steam. I wore a dress with white and navy horizontal stripes, and he wore a buttoned-down shirt with shorts. This thrilled me beyond belief—strut your stuff, nerdy king. We went out to dinner, and he held my hand while we waited for our food to arrive. After spending so much time feeling suspicious of human touch, palm-to-palm contact felt like kicking fear in the nuts. I couldn’t wait to use the same hand to pick up my tuna melt and fries. Look at this, I thought. Look at this little miracle.

“How was work this week?” he asked.

The answer made me so nervous I forgot I hadn’t eaten all day. Ever since the Supreme Court released its Goddamn Dobbs decision, I’d been having a hard time with the whole eating thing. After a few bites of scrambled egg in the mornings I’d forego food until nighttime, when my stomach would rumble like Mississippi thunder. Once my date mentioned work, however, I truly lost my appetite. How was work this week? Sweet Lord, don’t make me barf.

“I...think...I wanna leave,” I said, feeling a sudden onset of light-headed vulnerability.

“Remind me how long you’ve been working there?”

I rolled my eyes upward as I struggled to remember what year it was. When I finally answered, the number felt heavy, hanging in the air like a confession.

“Yeah, that’s long enough” he said. “What do you want to do next?”

Take a vacation, I thought. Go freelance. Get better at my art and never, ever work in an office again.

“I don’t know,” I said, gently re-securing my armor.

I don’t think Peggy Olson refuses to speak her hopes and dreams out loud, but that’s what my inner Peggy Olson does when I’m afraid to sound stupid. I don’t always know what I want—of course not—but when I do know, I rarely speak up. Have I always been this way? Or is this what can happen to a person when the world vanishes overnight? Crying in front of men can wait—I need to get comfortable naming what I want.

When I walked into my apartment after acupuncture, I wanted to text him. Not him from last July—a different him, from long ago. He-Him. He who shan’t be named because he the biggest head hath. (He’s also not reading this. We can totally talk.) He was back and he had a lot to say—some of it even sounded great—but it didn’t take me long to realize that I couldn’t believe a word. There were too many weird variables and I had too many questions, and too many of his answers didn’t make any sense at all. For as uncomfortable as I was with my present, I knew I didn’t like the sound of this future. Still, in my vulnerable state I picked up the phone and texted him. He-Him: the reason I knew with crystal-clear certainty I would spend the weekend sobbing.

Me: Broke down crying to the acupuncturist.

Him: The acupuncture brought some stuff up?

Me: Yeah. I know from the outside it may look like I’m living some freewheeling life, but I’m really scared. Leaving a job after nine years to make it on my own...yeah, stuff is coming up.

Him: Whew, yeah...I can imagine. Is it like financial worries?

Me: The temptation to give up and go back to working full time is rearing its head. But. I know that would just make me sadder.

Him: So, you’re happier but stressed by inconsistent income?

Me: That. And I spent years creating a version of myself that could survive in the work environment I was in. Waste of time. Had to prove myself constantly again and again and pretend I gave a flying fuck. And now I have a chance to just BE. And not prove shit. And it feels unnatural.

Him: Unnatural how so? Like you are figuring out who you really are?

Me: What I want. Who I am. Those things. (Also, not at all surprised to see your midheaven is in Leo. So is mine.)

Him: Those are big questions. Figured out anything so far?

Me: I wrote recently that I want to make art and look hot. I don’t say this as an invite to flirt – I think for a long time I’ve been sort of fighting against my comfort with being seen. Making myself small.

Him: What’s yr art Steph?

Me: I’m never not thinking about writing. And it’s scary. It’s very personal and very intense. But thrilling. And when I’m in my zone, there’s no such thing as time.

Him: I mean, that’s always been your thing and you were always so good at it.

Me: Been waitin’ to hear that for years.

Him: What do you want to write?

Me: I wanna tackle this thing I’m trying to write about Elvis. I wanna write a bizarre podcast that’s a show within a show and would require a lot of thinking and world building. I wanna write about crying to the acupuncturist. I wanna write about the night years ago when a witch got me drunk and told me about initiating Bob Dylan into the Freemasons.

Him: Whaaaa?

Me: I was at this place having a beer and some soup, and this witch walked in. Tried to chat me up and I ignored him. He said he was reading about witchcraft and his dad founded some coven in the 70s. For a few minutes I just thought, ‘You know your day is taking a TURN if you ask the witch all the questions you want to ask.’

Him: What is a witch’s drink of choice?

Me: God, we were at a German place having beer, then we went across the street for wine, then next door for a cocktail. Then I barfed into my purse during the Lyft home.

Him: Great night. Are you still friends?

Me: Oh, hell no. He was so full of shit. A namedropper and a trust fund baby, really.

Him: So, you’re making it sound underwhelming. But you still want to write about it. Is the point of the story ‘look at this classic LA airhead?’

Me: I think it’s a pitstop on the way to self-respect. Not worth it to follow a male witch to a second location. I was trying to go on an adventure, and he was trying to get me drunk.

Him: What did you learn about self-respect from that encounter?

Me: I think about that night, and I reflect on my inherent rebelliousness and all the ways I’ve tapped into it ‘just for the story.’ Here I am, years later, telling you about it and I no longer find it hilarious—I find it silly and risky. I got drunk with a strange dude for...the laughs? The danger? I didn’t take him seriously at all and yet I spent an evening of my life listening to his shit. I don’t wanna waste my rebellious streak anymore. I wanna speak truth to power and love radically. It’s not something to waste on a dorky story.

Him: Are you daunted by writing something with so many layers to it?

Me: It’s not just one idea—it’s facing down what I know I wanna do and sticking with it because I haven’t come up with anything else. Following through. For myself. Doing what you know you have to do can be so...you know.

Him: Vulnerable?

Me: That. Yeah. And the idea of letting something consume you. Changing the way you do everything. I think I told you a bit about my work hiatus, when I just read, sat by the pool, and wrote. No TV. No alcohol. Hardly any weed. Did everything I could to keep my mind sharp. If I missed a night of writing, I felt off.

Him: What were you writing then?

Me: You’ve got all the questions tonight.

Him: Yeah, I wanna know about where Steph’s passions have led her.

Me: Closer and closer to radically loving myself. Accepting I do not and cannot have control over everything. And openly telling the world that I saw ELVIS 26 times in theaters because it’s a fucking work of art.

Him: That’s all deep stuff. Embracing the weirdness of the self.

Me: The weirdness and the imperfections.

Him: Psssh...what imperfections.

Me: Ah, my need for validation. My anxious attachment style. My tendency to run away from what I want or settle for less.

Him: A part of most egos, but things we can work on. We all have that stuff.

Me: Sometimes I have to take a step back when I’m being a perfectionist at work. I think, ‘Do I wanna do the best I can, or do I wanna be liked?’

Him: Then you realize that being liked has motivated you 90% of the time.

Me: Absolutely. It’s hard when the #1 thing people tell me is, ‘Everyone likes you.’ Cuz then I encounter someone who doesn’t. Or at least *might* not.

Him: Oooh, and then you must please them.

Me: Or I go into the other mode. The mode that’s like, ‘Well I hate people. So. Fuck you anyway.’

Him: You do have that mode.

Me: Yeah. Wednesday Addams.

Him: You once told me you were afraid that when I went away, I’d find these sophisticated, intellectual women, something you somehow weren’t...but homie, you are one layered onion.

Me: Somehow that doesn’t make me sound sophisticated or intellectual.

Him: You are both, but not in an ivory tower way. You are introspective and creative. You want to hold this mirror up to yourself and the world. It’s a thing that requires strength and exposure. And that’s soul strength, not ‘I aced the SAT’ strength.

Me: Thank you.

The phone call came four days later—one of those calls when they pretty much say, “Forget everything I said when I was yapping about wanting you.” He insisted he wasn’t trying to hurt me, and I pressed my hand against my face so hard I practically shoved the tears back inside. When my voice cracked, I interrupted myself to tell him, “I have no emotions. I’m a machine.”

I know I said I’d love for a man to see my snot—to really see it and respect it—specifically snot he inspired with his crummy words and actions. I’d love for my tears to trigger feelings of warmth and regret instead of confusion and defensiveness. I’d love to hear, “I am so sorry I hurt you” instead of, “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.” However, I also said that crying in front of men can wait—I need to get comfortable naming what I want. And in this case? I looked at that future that was laid out for me and thought, “That ain’t it.”

There’s a scene in, uh, in ELVIS, where Elvis Presley takes a meeting with Steve Binder and Bones Howe while ever-so-casually sitting on the Hollywood sign. Elvis’ career is “in the toilet” as Binder puts it, and it’s going to take a big, bold action for Elvis to reclaim his title of The King. His abusive manager, Colonel Tom Parker, wants the big, bold action to come in the form of a hokey Christmas special, but Elvis, after years of making himself small, has other ideas.

“I need you fellas to help me get back to who I really am,” he says.

“And who are you, Elvis?” asks Binder.

This isn’t the kind of question that can be answered in one line of dialogue. If anyone knew the answer, we wouldn’t still be asking it 45 years after the man’s death. In the movie, Elvis picks up a rock, and before he chucks it toward the Griffith Park trails (rude?), he answers, “I sure as hell ain’t somebody who sings Christmas songs by a fireplace for an hour.” Within minutes, he’s standing on a stage in front of a live audience, drenched in black leather and looking as hot as few people can. He didn’t have to say specifically that this was what he wanted—he only had to cut the bullshit after years of being who he wasn’t.

I love you, Peggy Olson. Which is why I have to kill you.