Who I am lately
An inventory of my own complexity
Today’s essay is a bit different from what I usually share on this platform. It’s my attempt to take a jumble of thoughts and feelings that have been on the hamster wheel in my head and make some sense of them by writing them out.
This seems like as good of a time as any to share more experimental writing with y’all. By the time you’re reading this, I’ll be on the last day of a three-day queer writing retreat, and come November 1, I’ll be participating in NaNoWriMo for the very first time in order to give my novel a giant push forward.
In a year where I have put myself out there as a writer in more ways than ever before (and been rejected as a writer in more ways than ever before too), I want to thank y’all for your investment in my art and in me. Your readership encourages me to keep investing in myself, and that is no small thing. 🩷
Who I am lately
Who I am lately is different from before. Changed in subtle and not-so-subtle ways.
I’m still me. Still recognizable, even if a little aged—like a familiar wooden table that’s accumulated scratches and dings so slowly you’ve almost forgotten what the surface was like when it was shiny and new. You can’t remember if you preferred it the way it was or if you like it better now.
My body appears to be declining in function and capacity more rapidly than I was led to believe it would. I’m not quite sure how it happened, but at nearly 34, I have almost entirely traded in erratic rides on the party bus for driving a practical Toyota Corolla at a leisurely speed (metaphorically speaking—I actually drive a very cool Honda CR-V Sport Hybrid).
Most nights, I’m in bed reading by 10:00 p.m. at the latest. If I’m not reading, it’s likely because I haven’t completed the Wordle yet or I need to get in a Duolingo Spanish lesson so I don’t lose my streak (85 days as of this writing). I tell myself that these activities will slow down the rate at which my word recall seems to be evaporating. Sometimes my mind drifts to that movie starring Julianne Moore where her character was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s. I try not to think about my grandmother who died from complications of dementia.
In the morning, I take medication to work. In the evening, I take medication to sleep. The effectiveness of both is hit or miss, which I lament when I’m cleaning out the pantry instead of sending an email or rotating round and round in my bed like a rotisserie chicken instead of slumbering.
Even if I do fall asleep, my dreams might be hazardous. A couple of weeks ago I woke up with neck pain so acute I had to go searching for my heating pad before attempting to sleep sitting up. There always seems to be some new pulled muscle in my body or medical anxiety clawing at my mind.
My dinner reservations have trended earlier and earlier, and I go out to bars and clubs so rarely that I couldn’t tell you the last time I did. Liquor? I hardly know her. I’ve been significantly cutting back on alcohol in favor of marijuana and microdosing mushrooms. I still love concerts, though I also can’t help but gripe about how late they start. More than I’d like to admit, all I have energy for is rotting on the couch in front of the TV.
**
Who I am lately is a split between virtual and reality. I’m the same person in both realms, but my shadow slants disparately in each—like the difference between early morning and late afternoon sun filtered through a window.
Online, I’m a glittering powerhouse. I’m witty and clever, and I wear my eyeliner sharp enough to draw blood. I am authentic and earnest to the point where people I’ve never had a conversation with think they really do know me. Strangers send me DMs inviting me for dinner at their houses without stopping to think about how unsettling and unsafe that might make me feel.
But in my own house, when the camera is off and the app I paid for to block me from my social media accounts kicks in, I wear soft pants and no makeup. I fear and I doubt and I wonder if all the energy I’m funneling into unpaid labor will eventually morph into something tangible.
I am so used to looking at the smooth, homogenous faces on the internet that the topography of my own catches me off guard in the mirror sometimes. I scurry down research rabbit holes about things like microblading and consider whether I should invest in a product that promises to smooth out my forehead wrinkles.
Then, I feel guilty for having the luxury of worrying about my aging face or worrying about anything at all in my comfortable life. GRWM: did you forget about the war and the earthquakes? People are dying: buy this beach waver.
The white-hot flames of shame lap at my ribs. Am I saying enough? Am I doing enough?* They rise from kindling I’ve been gathering since childhood—splintered sticks that spell out, “You are not enough.” Who decides what “enough” is? I cough and cough, choking on the smoke of others’ expectations.
**
Who I am lately is more tender. More primed to experience awe and delight in the little bits of goodness the universe bestows upon me.
I never used to care about houseplants. But then we moved to Colorado and the ones Jessie had either died or were maimed by the long drive to our new home. Because her office here is in the basement and the plants can’t be down there, I became responsible for nursing them back to health. It felt good to see them thriving, so we purchased more. Now I’m the kind of person who absentmindedly checks on soil dampness, buys houseplant fertilizer from TikTok Shop ads, and talks about the plants like they’re people.
I spend money on seeds for the birds and nuts for the squirrels. I lift the blinds all the way to the top of the windows each day so I can watch them coast and fly, scuffle and skip, exclaiming for Jessie to come see what they’re up to. My finsta is turning into a birder account thanks to the steady stream of photos and videos I get from our smart bird feeder. We stopped on our walk to watch a beautiful hawk in the park the other day. I am the lesbian Snow White of suburbia.
Maybe I’m softening because I already feel like time is running out. I often experience the urge to look back over my shoulder, certain that I’m hearing the rustle of grains of sand hitting the bottom of a looming hourglass.
So I make time slow down in the ways I know how. I cook complicated meals and bake desserts just because. Jessie and I do jigsaw puzzles after dinner with shitty reality TV playing in the background. I grumble under my breath when things get tricky, then shout triumphant expletives when I solve a section. I send my friends around the country mail and small gifts to tell them I love them—to remind myself I can be a source of kindness in my small corner of the world. I light candles, drink tea, and desperately try to savor what it’s like to be alive.
**
Who I am lately is at least the hundredth version of myself. By now, I must have molted in half a dozen towns. Feathers fallen in Chicago. Shimmering skin shed in Austin. If I inspected the corners of the office where I write, I’d probably discover tumbleweeds of fur.
I don’t know who I’ll become next. I do know that my seemingly endless ability to surprise myself takes my breath away.
How wondrous it is to discover yourself again and again.
Queerly yours,
Shohreh
*I know we’ve all been keeping an eye on the developing war between Israel and Palestine. If you’re anything like me, you’ve been sitting in anger and grief knowing that the lives of so many innocent people—those taken hostage, those murdered, those being bombed, those displaced, those cut off from the rest of the world—are being irreparably, unjustly altered. Setting aside any feelings about what is “enough” when it comes to talking about this conflict and taking action, I know of at least three things you can do (that I’m also doing personally):
Contact your representatives (through phone and/or email) to demand a humanitarian ceasefire and de-escalation. Here’s a site where you can look up your reps and their contact info. There are also a number of organizations that have put together call scripts and online campaigns to allow you to automatically email your reps.
Donate money to humanitarian organizations providing aid on the ground. Here are a few options. I suggest doing your research to make sure you’re donating to an organization that you feel aligns with your values.
Sign the change.org petition calling for an immediate ceasefire and share it with others.
There are certainly other actions you can take, but I at least wanted to offer those three for folks who have been unsure how to help.
To get in touch, shoot me an email at hello@shohrehdavoodi.com. For more from me, follow me on Instagram, TikTok, and Threads.
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