Category: Young-adulthood

Jeff

Sarah 16 Comments

I got the idea to call my dead sister’s cell phone from the movie P.S. I Love You. In the film, a woman calls her dead husband’s cell phone over and over.

It was the saddest thing I’d ever seen.

When my sister Melissa died, I called her constantly.

I sobbed when she didn’t answer.

I sobbed listening to her voicemail and I obsessed.

I pulled my family into it.

It was a little funny.

During one of my routine calls to Melissa, something weird happened.

Something that barged in on my pity party.

Something that introduced me to Jeff.

I hung up on him.

My beloved calling routine was taken from me by Jeff, aided by the dicks over at Verizon.

As pack leader, it was my job to ensure my younger brother and sister knew how to react.

Fueled by “coping-with-depression-via-alcohol,” I made another call.

I gauged his reaction to a drunk dial.

He seemed game.

Jeff and I connected immediately.

But I had the right number. And it was Jeff’s.

We had a beautiful summer together.

I couldn’t wait to get him on the line for a rip-roaring chat.

Classic Jeff.

I don’t remember much of our conversations.

What I do remember is the excitement when Jeff answered the phone.

If my life was a movie, Jeff getting Melissa’s phone number would have been one of those silver-lining things you hear about when people die. Like Jeff and I were supposed to meet. And Melissa dying was the only way that could happen.

A few months into my new routine with Jeff, I got a text from an unknown number.

My life isn’t exactly like a sad movie.

Author’s Note: This story was originally posted in 2017. I’m including this story in my book (Death, Depression, and Diarrhea). I’m sharing it with you so you can get a sneak peek of the redrawn art!

The Snibbles Snowball: why I lied about my dead sister’s cat

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I lied to a lot of hairdressers after my sister died. 

I never meant to lie. Melissa’s death was sudden and awkwardly made me the oldest child. In the weeks and months (and even years) after she died, I would panic during small talk.

The words came out before I could stop them. My sister used to live in Kalispell.

The words hung in the air.

Maybe not.

I don’t know the polite answer. Imagine if I told the truth.

Imagine if I tried to over-explain.

Alienating.

A few years later, I moved to Washington, D.C. for a job. Meeting new people gave me lots of opportunities to improve my answers.

I still panicked.

Sometimes people asked questions about my siblings, which meant discussing Melissa. How did I deal? By playing dodgeball.

I wasn’t good at dodgeball.

Before she died, Melissa adopted a cat named Snibbles. Melissa made a Facebook page for Snibbles, like all responsible pet owners.  

Rolland was my first new friend in D.C. and he noticed I was friends with Snibbles on Facebook.

My parents adopted Snibbles when Melissa died.

Rolland didn’t know I had a sister who died. He didn’t know Snibbles was Melissa’s cat and nobody had access to her Facebook page.

Probably because I lied about it.

I ignored the situation until my birthday. My birthday was two weeks after I moved to D.C.

Rolland was my first new friend.

Should I risk alienating him?

Admitting a lie about my dead sister’s cat seemed like I might return to zero friends.

I tried guessing the password. It couldn’t be that hard.

It was that hard.

Besides being my first new friend, Rolland was also my colleague. He sat next to me in the office every day. It felt really important to know the password because Snibbles was making me look like a dick.

I tried playing dodgeball.

To my delight, Rolland played along. 

It felt nice to blame Snibbles.

At some point in our friendship, Rolland learned about my sister and the plane crash that killed her. I did not tell him Snibbles was her cat.

I told Rolland the truth about Snibbles four years later over text message when we no longer lived in the same place or worked together.

It’s probably too late to come clean to the hairdresser.

What 6ft looks like in Montana

Sarah

Author’s Note:

I’m from Montana. As COVID-19 cases continue to rise, I created these comics to help fellow Montanans recognize what 6 feet looks like for physical distancing, written and drawn using examples from our state.

These comics are available in poster format with a free digital download. Hang up the poster at your office, business, or at home! If you’d like a bigger, fancier version, you can purchase a poster here.

You can also donate to help poster distribution in the community!

What to do when you get your butthole touched by a child on the street, part 3

Sarah Leave a comment

 

Read PART ONE

Read PART TWO

 

Nothing prepares you for having your butthole touched by a child.

The day I got my butthole touched, I’d been racing around Jaipur, happy as a clam in my zebra-stripe yoga pants.

*(When we walked by, this monkey was staring at us with an erect penis. Unimportant to the story, but I needed you to know).

Since I get nervous after dark in new places, we planned to return to our hostel before sunset.

But when the time came….

The problem with watching sunset is that once that sun sets, the sun has set.

That’s my “I’m being calm” face.

Back on the streets of Jaipur, we decided to Uber. Uber would be faster than taking the bus.  

Or not.

Like an empanada, I was starting to sweat. Past assaults crossed my mind—would I get punched? My breast grabbed?

My anxiety is deaf to logic.

Waiting for Uber, two kids flanked us. With my pre-worries, I felt ready for anything.

Cloudy with a chance of assault?

One hundred percent chance of butthole-touching.

More than that, this kid had swiped right on the entire length of my crotch, ending at my butthole.

Say it tain’t so.

Uber arrived. Five stars?

During all three assaults, my husband was right there with me. What happened to safety in numbers?

With butt-touching children amidst, I decided to obscure the target zone.

Luckily sweatpants are very on-trend.

Like I did after the face-punch and the boob-grab incidents, I shared my story.

Punny.

Eight-year-olds are sexually repressed in India?

Ok.

To be fair, I had thought the same.

For future safety, I asked my husband a favor:

That’d be great. 

Summary: What to do…

When you get punched in the face by a stranger, go to dinner. Eat even if you’re crying. Afterward, go to a show (it doesn’t have to be about post-partum depression).

When you get a boob grabbed by a burn-victim tween, keep riding your bike. Take selfies.

When you get a finger up your butt by a child, take an Uber home and eat curry for dinner. Order something special—treat yo’ self!

Spend time with people who make you feel safe, secure, and loved. Laugh, joke, and cry at the situation.

Be kind to yourself. I always believed that if threatened, I would fight. After reading more about the psychology of fear, I now understand that humans often freeze or flee when threatened. We rarely fight. My reactions, although foreign to me, were normal.

Your trauma is your trauma. Assault can happen in different forms and intensities. Finding terminology to describe your experiences can feel awkward. I still struggle to categorize mine. Sometimes, I feel like I am overstating if I use the terms assault or sexual assault—seems unfair to people who have experienced more serious trauma. Ultimately, there’s no sense in comparison.

Bottom line: life is weird. Talking with someone you trust about the weird stuff helps. Talking helps even if it’s embarrassing, even if it’s hard to categorize, even if it’s having your butthole touched by a child on the street.

 

 

What to do when you get your butthole touched by a child on the street, part 1

Sarah Leave a comment

 

Have you ever been to a rainbow party?

Maybe they’re mythical—like unicorns or Canada. (It’s unfortunate, because Canada sounds like a nice place).

One day, my husband and I had dinner plans with his mom. Engrossed in conversation, we exited the Washington, D.C. Metro.

And I got punched in the face.

So much blood—at least two drops or more. Just enough to make me look like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. 

We looked at my attackers. The attackers stared back, curious how we would retaliate.

I cut them deep with my words.

Would have been a lot cooler if he did… (The way Matthew McConaughey says it in Dazed and Confused).

Canceling plans due to “I got punched in the face” feels weird.

On TV, there were rumors about teenagers punching strangers in the face. I’d placed those rumors in the same category as rainbow parties: possibly fake.

Maybe rainbow parties ARE real.

After composing myself, we continued to dinner with my mother-in-law.

We tried to enjoy dinner but there was a crying baby in the restaurant.

After dinner, we walked to the theater.

I totally held it together.

At the theater, I grabbed a playbill.

The play began with a spotlight shining on a disturbed elderly woman screaming like a wailing baby. 

Then my husband said something really mean.

Three hours???

The wrong person got punched in the face that day.

I later confided in friends about the punching incident.

Should he have left me alone and bleeding?

Is that something people do?

I felt like a turd.

I don’t think I had a cunty look on my face.

What joke with the peanut?

END OF PART 1

Read PART TWO