of ember and anger. an unedited perzine about the time I yesand’ed Clementine Morrigan in her craziness| 2024-10-12

I feel appeased. Aligned. At peace.

The last week has been crazy. On Monday, I got up at 5:30 to catch a FlixBus from Brussels. I forgot my suitcase when I got off – will I ever see it again, I don’t know, but I got barely an hour to worry over it before it was swept off by the rest of my life.

I’m neck deep into the organization of the Journées du Soin Communautaire (Days of Community Care) in November. Throughout my stay in Belgium, I worked relentlessly – nourished and sustained by my talks with Rachel, her words opening my world to new meanings, religion, spirituality, philosophy, the fertile fracture of the self. Being away from home, I felt relief: I was no longer a house tenant, though I shopped and cooked; I was no longer this “I have to…” self, flooded and drowning through clutters of task-reminding objects – you know that pile of books you “should” read, well, my desk is full of little things embodying my to-do list so I don’t forget.

Yet, after twelve days, it was time to go home. To Toulouse. To Taïs, my partner whom I missed, but whom in themself signify something greater, scarier: a house. A future. Commitment. Certainty in uncertainty. A life beyond the constant flutter of dopamine I get from organization work.

I arrived – traveling lightly, having forgotten my suitcase on the way – in the late afternoon. I wish I could say I collapsed, by I didn’t. Cortisol runs so high in my system I often feel it poisons me, literally. I feel it coursing through my tendons, pooling in my joints.

The next day, Taïs and I went off to visit a house. A crumbling cluttered house with a holy roof and maybe three dozen thousands worth of renovation work. I saw the river, some hundred meters past the garden, and my heart lit as my shoulders dropped. I gazed at the deep blue pool in the middle of the running water and I could almost feel the rush of cold, the almost painful bite of the river, and I longed for it so bad I immediately sensed it would save me. That I could handle a year of intense, demanding work, that I could handle the waiting and the despair and the occasional fights I saw in our future renovating the house, because I could dive into the river and let it pull together the pieces of my faultering self. Restore my sanity. Breathe the breathless.

On Wednesday came Clementine Morrigan. I don’t even know what I did that day. I know I was in a rush. Working. Always working. When I finally found her by the station I was all over the place. The opposite of “aligned”, really. I took her to Leila’s – Tania’s, Clément’s, Charpi’s – and I felt so anxious people didn’t seem to sustain a conversation. I felt so uncomfortable. I felt… disappointing. I felt shit, this person flew all the way from fucking Canada and we have nothing to offer her but platitudes and a too-rich late dinner. I knew it would ease in time. I knew we were just being acquainted. But I couldn’t wait. I felt responsible. I felt bad that I left Leila and the family to care for her. I felt bad I didn’t take 100% of the tasks myself. I felt bad but also grateful, because I knew I couldn’t possibly handle it all myself. I knew it was for the best Clementine stayed at their house, that she’d be more comfortable there, that they would take care of her and entertain her. I knew all the people there were interesting people for her to talk to. See what I’m doing? I’m actually scheming. I’m not being grateful, I’m being useful. Damn it.

The next day I got up at 8 to pick up the keys to the location of the event of the night. I rode my bike to the print shop and photocopied zines for an hour and a half. I bought a not-likely-to-be-vegan chocolatine because I was starving, then I got back to my partner’s, waited a few minutes in the rain, then at their place, then I got to the location and opened for the cooking team. They had volunteered and were extremely glad to get to offer the care and comfort of a nice meal to people coming to speak and hear about incest. They were smiling and relaxed. They felt chill and welcoming. Yet I couldn’t just feel grateful, I had to feel sorry. I felt bad for driving people into my own madness. I felt a burden. I felt responsible.

I drove off to home to finish whatever work I needed to finish. It’s crazy how much I can fit in a day, only to forget whatever I was doing right after. I took metylphenidate from my housemate’s prescription. I baked… Whatever. I think I baked. Not sure what, or why. It seemed important. No, wait; it was on Wednesday I baked a crumble with a bag of old apples and pears I picked at the veg stand on the way. Anyway. On Thursday I worked.

Then I rode my bike, full of useless gear – my Zoom recorder wouldn’t work, presumably because of the SD drive, so I brought the heavy tripod and ten-meter extension cord for nothing. I checked in with the cooking team, then welcomed in Leïla, Tania and a volunteer I didn’t know who went to pick up chairs at the shared stack. I set up the “stage” – a couch and two wooden chairs in the barren room of the squat. I anxiously waited for everyone to come in – late. I saw the place fill up. We started talking. I fumbled a bit – struggling to find the clever words, the right prompts. I felt so unprepared. Clementine looked at me with her clear blue eyes and her presence felt somehow overwhelming. I listened to her speak and my mind wandered into its own meanders but I didn’t manage to turn those turnings into questions, into a conversation. The room was full. I owed it to the room to say something. Yet the eagerness and ease I normally feel when talking about something that interests me were nowhere to be found. I felt responsible.

We took a break. People scattered around. A large amount of apricot pie glazed in sticky caramel was consumed. I drew people’s attention back to a somewhat more formal conversation. The voices lulled and took a little while to resume. I felt guilty for upholding – somewhat – the structure I had announced. I felt inappropriate, off. I felt responsible.

The next day I tried to sleep in – but not too late. I baked cookies for the next day’s discussion. I arrived late at our lunch. I had to leave right when I was feeling sucked up into the conversation and that frustrated me. I got up, paid, and renounced the conversation because Taïs and I were to visit two houses. I felt like a sprout torn off its ground right after the first feeble roots dove in.

On Saturday morning – this morning – I thought burn-out would finally get me. Getting up was hard, painful. My hands and stomach were flaring with hot pain. Thankfully, Marina from the anarcha-feminist library was opening the premises for me and I didn’t have to venture out to get the keys. Taïs was with me and I was happy they’d stayed, but I was in survival mode and couldn’t connect to the joy of their presence.

I opened the shutters and made tea and placed food on the table. People started coming in. Some were late. An uncomfortable silence set while we waited. I felt responsible. I realized I had planned no structure at all to facilitate the discussion. Leïla jumped in with the right, minimal framework. Name, pronouns, relationship to the topic. This one first round got a couple people crying in shame and grief. I felt responsible. I was not holding up. I should have. I felt responsible.

Then we talked. We talked about becoming parents, about being afraid, being ashamed, being hurt. We talked about our own parents, the cycles we didn’t want to repeat, we talked about their pain, their loss, their powerlessness and the power we were trying to find. We talked about how excruciatingly hard it is to be the ones in reality, when everybody else seems content to inhabit unreality. We found community and we found difference. We opened. We shared. We sat there sipping tea and laying out our hearts. We trusted each other.

Then I felt something other. I was not only feeling responsible anymore. I surprised myself feeling angry. I said things I had said before, but this time I said them with emotion. With outrage, frustration, with a feeling of injustice and pain. I felt angry and it was evidence I was feeling something. Something I didn’t even know was there, really. I felt…

Anger is my one emotion. I said it today and it’s obviously not true but it’s not wrong either. Anger has always been my most faithful ally. Anger allows me to speak the truth and it allows me to take action. Anger is the one emotion because it breaks through the crust of all I repressed. Anger, I can trust, because anger is what gets me in motion. Anger is boundaries. It is truth. It is affirmation. Anger is why I’ve resisted so much, so long. Anger got me the key to my bedroom door. Anger got me the bodily autonomy to not fucking shave. To not fucking drink or party and to never yield. Anger kept me alive. It kept me safe. Kept me sane.

There in that group of eight survivors I reconnected with that anger. I felt its power. Felt how meek and weak I’d been these past few years, bowing my head lest it gets cut. Through anger I felt community and I felt hope. I felt a ferocious sense of care. I felt eagerness to repair and to foster repair. I felt solidarity and fierceness.

I drove off with Clementine and we didn’t speak about incest anymore. We did so without having to agree on it. We had become acquainted. Attuned, perhaps. The shared knowledge of reality was there among us, no longer shimmering. There was a tranquility. A quiet.

We ate soup and laughed silly laughs as we were trying to roast expired vegan marshmallows over the pallet wood fire in the chimney. We talked small, deep things. Then it was time to retire. Clementine announced she’d go to sleep right when I was feeling like taking some time for myself. We hugged. The embers in the chimney burned a low, deep red light.

The specter of burn-out had burnt away with it. I felt appeased. Aligned. At peace.