Fishing in the Reservoir

The Reservoir Bitches conversation continues & excavating my mind to process grief

If you read last week’s newsletter, you’re well aware that this essay will be a wee bit heavy. [TW: pregnancy loss, abortion]. You’re also well aware that I can’t stop talking about Reservoir Bitches by Dahlia de la Cerda, and as she so eloquently says:

“Just like Los Bukanas de Culiacán say in ‘El Mini 6,’ what starts rough ends rough. That’s my song, fam. My life philosophy. But you’re here for me to tell you how I got where I am, not to hear me spout proverbs and shit. So buckle up.” —Reservoir Bitches

My best ideas come when I slow down. I’m sure many of you have heard of shower thoughts—the deep, random, and inspired thoughts that pop into your brain when you’re doing someone as mundane as showering. Mine come while driving, washing dishes, trying to fall asleep.

These mundane moments and the disconnection from the stresses of everyday life are also when I process. Process what’s happening in my business, the plot holes in my novel, the drama in my life, and, of course, the emotions that accompany said drama.

This is a relatively new phenomena, though it absolutely shouldn’t be. I was raised by project people—people that are always looking towards the next thing they have to do, a project they want to complete, an adventure to be had. When something is done, they move immediately on to the next. They are do-ers. Neither of my parents can sit still for a minute.

I say this lovingly because I am also a project person and I love having things to work for and look forward to. The problem arises when I let this mentality fill every waking second of my day.

An average day used to look like this: wake up, put the news on, make coffee, grab a book, read on the subway, work, work, work, grab lunch and read on the phone while waiting, work drinks, read on the subway home (or let’s be real, doom scroll), fall asleep watching TV.

This nonstop filling-in of my day prevented me from ever having to really examine my feelings. The deep ones, that is, not the surface-level, petty ones. Each day I strung together was a runaway train I couldn’t get off of. I never took a moment to step back and ask: is this really what I want? How do I really feel?

Well, then life happened. It forced my hand. It was time to reckon with the feelings I had been running from.

Towards the end of 2018, I became pregnant. My ex and I were thrilled, and terrified, and uncertain. All those conflicting feelings we all feel but never talk about. The first few weeks, I was jittery from the nervousness, anxiety, morning sickness and growing anticipation… at least, until we went to the doctor’s office for an ultrasound.

They couldn’t find a heartbeat. I have a history of fibroids and my HCG levels were high so the doctor tried to calm us down and recommended we see a radiologist for confirmation. Maybe, they said, the fibroids were blocking their view.

The day in-between appointments was torture. Right before we were set to leave our respective offices to walk to the doctor, my ex told me he couldn’t bring himself to go. He hated doctors and couldn’t bring himself to face more bad news in a doctor’s office. And besides, something might come up at work.

It’s incredible the things we make excuses for and tolerate when it's all we know.

So I walked the avenues and streets alone, crying. And by crying, I mean that I was straight up sobbing, trying to suck in air into my lungs but choking it up before I felt any reprieve from the pressure. My ugly cries scared the strangers passing me in the street, though one woman did ask if she could help. I flinched away from her kindness, an injured dog. I had to stop along the walk twice to reign myself in. In retrospect I can now identify this as my first panic attack.

‘“This is pathetic,” I thought. To be honest, though, I’m used to being pathetic.” —Reservoir Bitches

The doctor’s office was cold and the radiologist’s demeanor was colder. But when he started up his somehow-more powerful ultrasound, we both saw it. And I heard it. The heart beat. To this day, I don't think I have ever felt so relieved in a single moment. I cried in the office for a whole different reason.

I had to go back and forth to the radiologist 4 times before he gave me the all clear. We were good! At the end of the first tri! We had scheduled our amniocentesis test! I checked all the miscarriage rate charts. We were in the 1-3% range. YEAHHHH BABY!

Then the bleeding started the week after my 29th birthday. At first it was light and the doctor wasn’t worried. That night it got worse but I was trying not to panic! The next morning, though, the doctor confirmed our worst fears.

I felt completely numb. My brain was misfiring. The doctor's words weren’t registering. So my ex led the charge and elected to continue the miscarriage naturally (as opposed to induced or D&C). I could only nod my approval. I never would have agreed if I knew I was going to bleed for 40 days.

“It was the biggest catastrophe of my life. A fucking tsunami that wiped out every one of my hopes and dreams, even the mistakes I hadn’t gotten to make yet.” —Reservoir Bitches

The opening essay of Reservoir Bitches brings us into the head of a woman who needs an abortion but can’t afford any of the clinics within driving distance and she certainly can’t afford a plane ticket out of her own private hell. Through trolling online forums of women in similar situations to her own, she discovers women in Brazilian favelas had been using an over-the-counter drug for stomach ulcers to induce uterine cramps. Viola. Her salvation.

The essay starts out laugh-out-loud funny. I turned to my husband on the second page and said, “I’m going to effing love this book.” And then it quickly becomes heart breaking in it’s relatability.

She sits alone, at home, trying to comfort herself with a favorite movie. When she moves to the bathroom, the detail in the essay brought me right back to my own first night in the bathroom. The first night I realized I was alone.

At home, after the doctor, my bleeding became a river. I laid on the floor of our bathroom, thinking at once that I was happy to have gotten rid of the cruddy blue tile older than my grandparents but also pissed that I was going to ruin the beautiful new white tile I spent weeks picking out.

My tears disappeared into the bathmat I folded underneath my head until I could heave myself back up to the toilet. Back and forth from floor to seat as clots and blood passed.

The unnamed woman runs her fingers through the water, searching for confirmation. My own fingers were afraid of what I would find.

She sought freedom. I lost my heart.

It was a crime scene.

The next 39 days were a fever dream. Some days I barely bled, some days I thought I was fine until I’d stand up from my desk at work and a gush of blood escaped, soaking my jeans down to my knees. I learned to only wear black.

I accidentally bled on the seat of our car. It was suggested that I wear diapers.

Friends announced their pregnancies. I cried. I wasn’t allowed to be jealous or bitter. I had to be happy for them.

Family members asked me how I was. I answered clinically. Still bleeding. Fibroids have grown. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.

The difference is de la Cerda’s character could flush away her pain. Mine stuck with me. I was haunted by it. It was a fucking ghost that followed me around everywhere. I couldn’t understand why. So many women miscarry. Why was I struggling so much? My husband seemed fine, why couldn’t I be?

“Girl! The scandal.” —Reservoir Bitches

My first real foray into journaling came when I left my ex (months after the miscarriage) and went on an Eat-Pray-Love-esque trip to Thailand. The incredible amount of silence and time to think was unbearable. I journaled for lack of other things to do. Pen on paper was hard at first. What the hell was I supposed to write about? But slowly, the silence and the time gave way to words dripping onto the pages. It gave me some initial clarity on the breakdown of my marriage— there would be a lot more to unpack there in the coming months and years—but I still hurt about the baby that should have been mine.

Towards the end of the trip, I went to a hotel in Chiang Mai to use their spa. I needed a day of reprieve from my thoughts. It was, after all, the day my baby was supposed to be born.

The universe works in funny ways sometimes. At the hotel, signs and balloons and flowers are everywhere… for Thai Mother’s Day. I fell apart (obviously).

In many ways I consider this moment to be the last to break me before I could build myself up again. I journaled and journaled about the ache in my heart, my soul. How bone-weary tired I was of carrying pain with me.

And then bam. The truth hit me. In my grief, I journaled that this baby was the only person who would love me unconditionally. Right or wrong, I feared that all other love in my life was conditional. Losing that hope of unconditional love made me feel like I didn’t deserve it.

Once I had that information, everything could finally change.

The last five years have been a journey of journaling and rediscovering the things that make me me. It’s been fishing in the lake of my feelings to make sense of it all. Journaling made me realize I am strong, I am a survivor, and surprisingly, I am not an inherently angry person. I’m just a happy little weirdo who needs therapy and has a chemical imbalance in her brain. I’m someone who thrives off of good books, great conversation about life and deep topics, competitive board games, Wellbutrin, and em dashes.

I might be the villain in someone else’s story, but I’m finally the hero in mine.

Book & Wine Pairing

Time to lighten it up! It’s the holidays and you just survived reading some heavy shite. This past week, I finished The Most Wonderful Crime of the Year by Ally Carter. Such a perfectly light, fun palate cleanser. I love a cozy, but a cozy and a romance? Chef’s kiss. ‘Tis the season, right? I recommend reading this one by the fire with a glass of Soter Vineyards Planet Oregon Pinot Noir.

It’s an unpretentious, everyday wine. One that you drink purely for the fact it’s enjoyable and easy to drink. Not because it’s sophisticated or complex. Plus, the tasting notes of chocolate, sweet toast, pine cherries, and pine are perfect for the holiday season.

Trust me. Cuddle up with a glass and this book. It’ll be the perfect cozy night in (and reprieve from all the holiday parties I’m sure you’re attending).

Writing & Querying Update

Last Saturday was the Writing Day Workshop (Chicago) and the pitches! THE PITCHES! Like a true crazy person, I opted to pitch nine agents. NINE. In ten-minute segments. On a day I was hosting a holiday party.

I’m smart like that.

Quick shout out to my family and husband, who all volunteered to listen to my query over and over and over again. Your feedback was invaluable… and saying it so many times helped me memorize the important bits :)

Eight of the nine pitches went great. Several went WAY better than expected. I cannot begin to express how amazing it is to be pitching and watching an agent react or smile at your words. It felt like many of them just “got” it. They understood SUSIE SWEETHEART is meant to be fun and absurdist. That the writing is joyful.

I got two full manuscript requests, several 50-100 page requests, and a couple of invitations to query. One of the queries has already said no, while one of the agents who requested pages has since asked for the full.

I know I can’t be for everyone, and that’s okay. I’m over the moon with this result so far. I’m just as excited about working with these agents as they are about my work.

Fingers crossed, my friends.

Until next time!

xx, bb