February is a strange month for me. In the later years of my drinking, February was such a “strange” month that I would hit a spectacular bottom by the end of it.

I went to rehab in March 2007.

I went again in March 2008.

And then, in March 2009, I got sober, after the bottom that ended all bottoms, though it was an internal collapse that time.

A few years after that, I noticed that every year (even sober), around February, I am hit with a persistent, vague malaise.

Nothing in particular is wrong. Everything in particular is wrong.

A therapist once floated the idea of “seasonal depression.” That sounded plausible, but I’ve always been able to manage this state with exercise and eating a little better and forcing myself outside or staying inside and the steadfast knowledge that it will end, and I go through this every year.

So I don’t think it’s depression. I think it’s a yearly shithole I enter for some reason, or many reasons, which remain not entirely clear.

“Manage” it. What does that mean, exactly? Endure it to get through, I suppose.

Not die. Not drink again. Not obliterate my life some other way.

On February 8, I attended the hearing of the mentally ill cousin who killed my grandmother. I heard testimony of what happened that night. I sat in a room with him, the kid I knew as a kid, with whom I played and even lived for a while. He did not look the same. A couple times he looked back at me. I could not smile, or even nod.

On the way home, I fell asleep in the passenger seat and stayed half-asleep for two days.

And then I got some sort of ten day illness which I am not entirely sure was not a sickness caused by my shaking in that courtroom and a re-entering of the images I thought had faded in the past 14 months.

But I took antibiotics and it improved, so probably not.

“Manage.”

The Parkland shooting happened shortly after, as you know. Seventeen more babies dead. AR-15s. The NRA. The President suggesting we turn our schools into dystopian wastelands of gun-wielding ex-marines and teachers. I wonder if we should stay. I wonder if I belong here. I wonder where we’ll go.

I want to be funny. I want to write you a funny post.

It will come.

Is that how I manage? Because I know it will come again?

I know that after the greatest pain of my life, the relief has come. The freedom. The facing, and the letting go. This isn’t the greatest pain of my life. Not even close.

I think of the parents in Florida living theirs. I think of the kids who survived, the ones telling the NRA-whore politicians to get the fuck out of their way.

“Manage.”

The other day I looked over at Arlo, my three-year-old, as he was kneeling on the living room rug, carefully trying to push a little figure into a car that wasn’t meant for it, and I watched his little fingers move. Have you ever noticed the way toddler fingers move? Just these tiny hands working so damn hard, these chubby, sweet things working, working.

A task that doesn’t matter. The only task that matters.

I thought maybe it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

Because in February’s defense, this is the month when I cry looking at the faces of my children, when tears come so quickly I’m ashamed of myself. Then I’m ashamed for being ashamed of myself.

I am on the edge of what my body can contain, right on the rim of my person, where every insult, every joy, every sting hits me faster, and harder, than when I’m on the inside, protected, drawn deeper into myself where the days are safer and the world kinder.

This is the month of raw nerve.

I have learned to “manage” until I fall back where life is more comfortable. And I suppose, in some strange way, I’ve learned to appreciate what this feeling is, and what it does, because like it or not the pain casts the joy in more vivid light, and the ears of my dog feel softer, and the arm of my husband feels denser, and the curl of my baby seems perfectly fallen over his eye like a weird piece of art.

And I notice it.

In thirty minutes, I’m going to leave my house to hear one of my favorite singers. I’m going to dance. I’m going to feel my body move.

I’m going to notice the cracked love and sin of his voice, and manage.

In case you’re managing too.

Here we are.

the curl in question, and the rocks he asked to “borrow from the earth.”

****

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Get into it.

A workshop with Janelle Hanchett

February 21 – March 28, 2018

This is a brand new, intensive online workshop for people who want to write valid, credible, effective arguments in essays, social media and blog posts.

In this workshop you will learn how to write about controversial subjects in a way that invites people to listen and consider your perspective.

You’ll figure out how to situate your argument in the larger discussion, see where your ideas come from, and assess them within their larger social context.

You will learn how to clarify your audience and purpose as well as tailor your message effectively to resonate with that audience. Specifically, you will learn to adjust your tone, voice, and actual content to remain in discussion with as opposed to IN ATTACK OF others.

There is a time for ranting – and god knows I do it often – but ranting is easy. We all know how to do that.

This is different.

This is hard.

This is powerful.

When we rant, we’re spewing our opinions across the page. Those who agree with us will jump up and down and high-five the air and yell “fuck yeah” into the void. Those who don’t agree, however, will send us emails letting us know our children should be removed by social services. And also, we’re fat.

More thoughtful individuals who disagree with our rants will point out the fact that we didn’t really make viable arguments, use evidence, or offer claims supported by anything beyond rampant swearing and rage.

So we rant when we really don’t care too much about changing minds or offering new ideas or affecting “the opposition.” We rant because it’s fun, and often funny as hell, and feels good to write and read. It’s a bit – dare I say it? – cathartic.

We write an actual argument, though, when a topic means enough to us that we genuinely want people to listen, understand, and consider our ideas. We are not interested in attacking, alienating, or isolating (although some people will get that from even the best arguments, and with those people, we simply do not concern ourselves).

Examples of essays I’ve written that meant a lot to me and were attempting to make sound arguments are: We Don’t Start with Needles in our Arms and How I Discovered I am White.

This workshop is to help you perfect your ability to frame and write arguments, from opinion editorials to compelling social media posts to full-blown submittable essays. I have Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees in English, so I’ve spent more years than I’d like to admit crafting essays, studying rhetoric, tone, language, voice, and working on the craft of argumentation.

I also fight with my husband a lot, but perhaps that doesn’t count.

It’s hard to write about things we’re passionate about that also happen to be controversial. It’s hard to do justice to topics that really matter, and we need a blueprint. We need a place to begin.

This workshop offers that. I gives you a blueprint to determine what and how much to research, who to cite, what to argue, and how. It will teach you how and why some arguments are effective and others implode. It will remind you of the most common logical fallacies that undermine credibility, as well as the myriad other ways we manage to dilute our messages.

Unlike some (most?) other types of writing, there is actually something of a method to persuasive writing. There are actual steps you can take to improve your arguments and essays, and I am in fact qualified to teach that shit.

Also, in this workshop, you will either write a piece from scratch, or you can submit to me a piece you’ve already written, and I will offer you 1:1 feedback on that work.

Please do not stress out over the writing in this workshop. It can be ONE page. It’s simply to practice forming and writing an argument/persuasive piece, and to receive feedback on it. This isn’t college. You don’t have to write some 7-page essay on some bullshit topic for some bullshit professor.

Wait. I didn’t mean that. College writing is THE BEST! (Seriously though, this isn’t school. I promise.)

Since this is the first time I’m offering this workshop, the price is significantly lower than it will be next time. We will hold weekly live video workshops, and enrollment is limited to eight people. I hope you join us.

Your voice matters, and I want to help you gain the tools to feel confident getting it out there.

WEEKLY OUTLINE: 

Week 1: Nothing happens in a vacuum

This week we will discuss Aristotle’s rhetorical triangle and how to situate our arguments in larger discussions, as well as ways to establish credibility.

Due: Topic for argumentative essay/editorial/blog post  

Week 2: Message, Purpose & Audience

We will help you define the difference between message and purpose, and using those two pieces of analysis, we will figure out how to find your key audience, which is probably the most critical guide to how to write the essay.

Due: Outline of argumentative piece

Week 3: Tone, Voice & Content

How do we create a tone that’s appropriate for our purpose and thus effective with our audience? Of ALL the information in the world, how do we choose that which will bolster our effectiveness?

Work on argumentative piece

Week 4: Logical Fallacies and The Art of Undermining One’s self

A fun reminder of the rampant logical fallacies in our world. I promise, this is actually fun. And once you see these fallacies, you can never unsee them, and you will never watch the news or listen to holiday party political discussion with your family the same (god help us all).

Work on argumentative piece

Week 5: Self-awareness (we are all biased), reasonableness, and the ability to anticipate audience questions

How do we find the holes in our arguments? How can we create a balanced and fair discussion? How to we choose which counter-arguments to address?

Due: Second or later draft to Janelle

Week 6: The magic is in the revision

What do we look for when we revise? How do we determine what’s working in our piece, or not? How do we find places where we are undermining ourselves? What critique should we consider and learn from? And what should we ignore completely?

1:1 video consultation with Janelle re: your piece

DETAILS:

Participants: EIGHT

Dates: February 21 – March 28, 2018, video conferences held on Wednesdays at 10am PST

Cost: $389* for workshop, which includes a 20-minute video consultation

Option 2 (workshop + extras): $499* for workshop, 1-hour video consultation, plus written feedback and direct editing on your piece

*Installment plan available, but I have to charge $10 for it as I too am charged. Apologies. Before signing up, please review the refund policy stated below. Thank you!

NOTE: This workshop is sold out. To be notified of future workshops, please sign up for my mailing list on this page. Thank you!

REFUND POLICY: I can offer a full refund up to and including January 20. I can offer a 50% refund up to and including February 5. After February 5, I cannot offer a refund. By signing up for this workshop, you agree to this refund policy. Thank you!

I generally try to avoid writing “helpful instructional” posts, mostly because I don’t really know what the hell I’m doing (you know, in life), but every now and then, fate hands me some piece of information that I think may be helpful to others, so I share what I know. For example, alcoholism.

And now, traumatic death and grief.

For those of you who don’t know, on the evening of November 9^th, 2016, my grandmother was murdered by my mentally ill cousin. I was pulling out of my kids’ school parking lot the next morning when my mother called, screaming.

And in that moment I was inducted into the traumatic death grief circle. I don’t love it here, and hope you never join me, but you or somebody you know probably will.

I want to write what I’ve learned about grief because let’s be honest, nobody knows what the hell to do when a friend’s sister, child, spouse or parent suddenly dies. Nobody knows what to do when somebody’s loved one slowly dies. I didn’t. I sent a text or call or card, flowers or food or chocolate, and moved on. If it was a close friend, I showed up once or twice.

I see now that I could have done better for my friends. And I will now.

It’s not surprising we sort of suck at this. We live in a culture that does its best to protect us from aging and dying – botox, face lifts, endless “anti-aging” creams, sending our elderly to homes – so I get the feeling most of us don’t want to move too close to the topic of death, and the grieving among us become death beacons. We’re like giant glowing WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE marquees.

And who wants that?

BORING.

When it comes to death and dying, we want to show up for a moment, touch it for a second, then recede quickly back to our fantasy of safety. There’s nothing wrong with that fantasy. In fact it is necessary for life: How else would we feel comfortable every day hurling down a freeway in a box of metal with thousands of strangers who are probably texting?

Delusion of safety.

And believe me, after having it ripped away, I realize fully how we NEED that delusion. Because I’m terrified all the time now, and I sure won’t weep when that’s over. (My dog suffocated in an insulated lunch bag 5 weeks after my grandmother was killed, and we found him dead in the morning, and it was precisely at that point my psyche shifted into random death can occur at any moment mayday WE ARE NOT SAFE mode. And now I’m weird AF but getting better.).

I’ve read a lot of posts about “What not to say to grieving people,” and while I suppose that’s helpful, I’m not into it. People say stupid shit. People said profoundly insensitive things, and honestly, if you message a person whose grandmother was murdered wanting details of the crime because you saw it on the news and you’re living out some detective fantasy, nothing I can say will help you. And yes, that happened. More than once.

But most of the time, people just don’t know what to say. Every time somebody said, “I know what you’re going through. My grandma died last year of old age.” I wanted to be like, “Yeah that’s not actually the same thing as having your grandmother stabbed to death by a family member so please stop,” but I knew that person was trying to reach out, to empathize, to help. So for sure their words were not “perfect,” but it’s small, you know?

It stung because it reminded me of my own sense of isolation and loneliness – as in, what sort of freak has this happen in their family – but during those first couple months, damn near everything hurt like hell. Everything reminded me of the trauma. I had to get off the internet entirely. I was a raw open wound and the world was unknowingly chucking salt into the center of it about 80 times a day. So it was more about ME than them. They were never gonna win with me. I hurt too much.

Plus, how can we make hard and fast rules about what to say or not say in a time as personal as grief? For me, I had to make some sick ass jokes. I needed to laugh about some really dark shit – not at the expense of my grandmother, but rather, the situation in general – because the weight of my sadness was crushing and I needed relief to breathe. At some point, I needed maniacal laughter, maniacal laughter to open a vent and let a little of the insanity of the situation out – my brain unable to hold it. My heart unable to house it. My thoughts unable to reason with it.

It’s not about saying the perfect thing.

It’s about showing up and meeting people where they are and I think we do that through opening our eyes and really seeing people, in all their grieving mess, and not making it about ourselves, our comfort, our fear. I know immediately when I’m around a friend who I can be honest with and those with whom I need to give the “Oh I’m fine” runaround.

But here’s what I really want you to know:

Grief is a physical pain. It hurts the actual body. In headaches, tension, anxiety, exhaustion – my bones ached. My face. My head. So I appreciated physical help: laundry, cooking, food, cleaning.

Grief scatters the mind. I straight up forgot about a button on my car that unlocks the doors from the driver’s door. I used it a thousand times, then forgot about it entirely for weeks. I’ve missed more appointments the past 4 months than probably the past 3 years of my life. I will commit to something on Thursday and forget on Friday. I can’t figure out simple questions. I grow confused easily. So I appreciated people’s patience with my mistakes and when they didn’t require me to help solve their emotional problems as perhaps we had done in the past, because holy mother, I HAD NO MORE TO GIVE.

Grief makes you super weird. My pain moved from a freight train slamming my body to waves of panic and terror and sorrow to a gray cloud descended over me all the damn time. A heaviness. A strange apathy. And then, at the strangest moments, the wave comes again, and I think maybe I can’t withstand this one.

And I want you to know how much terror is involved in grief like this. If this is true, what else can be true? What else can be taken? 

Every time my kids want to ride their bikes, I want to say “no.” Every time my mom doesn’t text back at night, I wonder if she’s been killed, and my body physically responds. A friend showed up unexpectedly at 9:30pm one night and my heart raced for 30 minutes after because I thought he was the police, there to tell me somebody had died. The simple walk to the door had me panicked. This happens 10 times a day, still, in response to random tiny events. My intellect says, “Janelle, this is nonsense. Stop. My body and heart say: ‘DANGER.'”

I walk around with that inside all the time, and the world doesn’t know.

So yeah, it’s weird and dizzying and painful for a long time, in a literal, material way – and sometimes I feel like I’m going to get carried away into oblivion, and just then, I get a message from a friend that says, “Hey I’m thinking of you and you don’t need to respond but know you are buoyed, and we will not let you drown.” And I cannot tell you how much I think those messages actually made me survive.

And it was the people who kept sending them and calling two weeks, one month, two months after it happened – and still bring it up sometimes – that helped me beyond measure because they give me permission to keep talking when I was afraid to “bring people down,” and they slammed that sense of isolation.

Because in our busy lives coupled with the desire to distance ourselves from death, once the funeral is over or a month has passed, the world says, “Oh you’re fine now let’s get back to the usual programming,” and that is precisely when the agony settles in: Reality to the new life.

But where did everybody go?

Back to life. Back to the routine. I get it. But there are a few friends who stick around, who keep showing up, who keep asking, “How are you?” in a way that really wants to know, and they keep us alive. They keep us above water.

So now I’m going to show up for the grieving when everybody else has stopped asking. When everybody else thinks it’s “over” and “time to move on,” I’m going to come to your door through word or body, and I’m going to say, “Hey. I’m here.”

And whatever happens with you will become the power to get us both through. Your world is falling, and I know it, but I’m here with you so let’s get weird and real until all the waves have crashed, and we’re just sitting here again in the sunshine.

I’ll remind you it will come, as they have done for me.

With my Arlo a few days before she died. I don’t know what I’ll do when he outgrows those dino pajamas. She thought they were so cute.

1. For obvious reasons, Mondays aren’t generally my favorite day. But this morning, Ava was lying on my bed reading a book (no school) and I was in my bathroom getting ready. For some reason I asked her “Hey Ava, does your school ever talk about what you’re supposed to do if somebody tries to kidnap you?” She responds “not really.” So I ask “Well, do you know what to do?” And then, people, she nonchalantly looks up from her book for a second, says “Yeah, you kick ‘em in the balls,” then looks back down.
2. So clearly, today is a better-than-average Monday.
3. I suppose a better mother than me would be slightly alarmed that her ten-year-old just used the word “balls,” but given the context, I’m alright with it.
4. On Friday night Mac and I went to the San Francisco Bay Area (I spelled it out because I realize many of you aren’t from here, and I often talk about “the city” or “the Bay” as if that means something to everybody on the planet, so I’m trying to be more contentious.) to see Florence and the Machine with my bestie. It was ridiculously fun.
5. I hate it when I say “bestie.” I really should not say “bestie” again.
6. Then, on Saturday, we went to the Hoes Down Festival in the Capay Valley, where we go every year, because it’s one of my favorite events ever. However, this year they opened up online sales so it was like 12 times larger than prior years and there were all these yuppies there (also from the San Francisco Bay Area), doing their obligatory “farm day” with their children, wearing the obligatory “country clothing,” (e.g. $200 jeans with a country feel and $400 cowboy boots without a scratch on them). Needless to say, the vibe had changed.
7. The “new vibe” apparently involved me receiving sharp comments from 3 or 4 strangers on the topic of my parenting choices, which apparently include a blatant disregard for toddler footwear and the horrendous choice that my two-year-old doesn’t have to hold my hand EVERY FUCKING MOMENT OF EVERY FUCKING DAY. More on that later.
8. No but really, why do people trip out so much about a toddler walking a few feet in front of her parents? I don’t get it people. I don’t. This one broad was like “Where is this child’s mother? WHERE?” And I was like “um, right here.” And she was all scowling and full of disdain: “Oh, wow. I thought she was alone.” I was 5 feet behind her. Five feet.
9. And then, because two giant events in two days isn’t quite enough (because we’re 23 years old and just never ever get tired!), we went to an amazing shrimp boil/oyster feed at my friend’s house on Sunday. It was wonderful. I’m 90% sure fresh oysters are the best food in the entire world.
10. As you know, my neighborhood leaves something to be desired. As in, it sucks ass. It’s ugly, unsafe, and uninteresting. Except our neighbors behind us. They’re amazing. Every couple months, these people party like hell all day long – booze, yelling, music, about 12,000 squealing kids – and they’re loud, like really loud. But then, at precisely 8:45pm, they shut the whole thing down. I mean it’s like silent. They turn off the music, send people home, and go inside. Blows my mind. It’s as if they respect others and consider their neighbors. Can you imagine? They must be from some other planet, but they renew my faith.

Speaking of renewed faith, in the parking lot of the Florence show, some dude gave me a “Don’t be a dick” sticker, which I promptly put on my car, feeling like my life was FINALLY complete. But then, I got home and Ava says “Mama, you do realize you pick me up from school in this car, right? I don’t really want to be the kid whose parents drive around with a swear word on their car.” So I took it off. Because she’s probably right.

But I had it on for 24 hours.

And it was fucking glorious.

At least I have this, to remember…

Two weeks ago, my husband removed the television from the living room wall. He then placed it in our closet. It has remained there since. So yes, since that time, we have not had a functioning T.V. in our home.

Now, I would like to tell you that we did this for some deep philosophical purpose – you know, in support of some profound spiritual, insightful, Waldorf-inspired conviction…but that would be a lie.

And you KNOW I never lie.

Yes, I totally do.

But not about this, because I’d totally get caught. If I uttered the words “I removed the television from my house because I want my kids to knit and weave and make felt gnomes all day,” you all would know I was full of shit, because I’ve openly admitted my need for the electronic babysitter.

Plus, you know I am way too lazy for that wool felting thing.

So I’ll tell ya the truth. The truth is we removed the television because our son had the focus of, well, hmmm. How can I explain this?

Picture a river otter on methamphetamine. Now ask it to do algebra.

Yes, yes that’s it.

I may be exaggerating. Maybe. Very thin maybe.

And as I watched our little river otter dart around the world in maniacal inattention, I kept getting the feeling that the television was messing with him. Mac had the same feeling. It was a gut feeling.

We kept throwing around the T.V.-ejection idea, but we always came back to our own laziness. I mean, what about those movies we like to watch once every 6 months, or that vegetating time (which I keep saying I’m going to do but never actually accomplish)? What about 30 Rock? What ABOUT THE OFFICE people THE OFFICE? Don’t fuck with Dwight.

And Rocket LOVED that box. Loved it. Watched it every chance he got. Occasionally threw fits when we made him turn it off.

But as it often happens in my house, one day Mac got serious and just did it. He got his tools out. He took the sucker off the wall. He did it without word or warning.

To tell you the truth, I panicked a little. I mean, what the hell am I going to do with these kids when I need to cook? When I need a break? How I am going to plug them in for a few minutes?

Oh WOW, that sounded awful.

But I figured we’d give it a shot for the summer, to see how it goes.

And let me tell you how it’s gone: I may never have a television in my house again.

I am floored by the changes in my family. I cannot explain the depth of my amazement at what I’ve witnessed.

My son is a new person. He is calmer, more centered, more patient. He is a different child.

As I write this, he and Ava are playing Barbies in the other room. They have been doing so for the last hour. With pretty much no fighting.

I couldn’t make this up.

A couple days ago Rocket woke up at 5am. The whole house was asleep. I hadn’t fallen asleep until 2am, so it was OUT OF THE QUESTION that I would get up with him. My heart sank when I remembered I couldn’t tell him to watch T.V. quietly until I woke up. I told him “Rocket, check it out. I need to sleep. Everybody’s asleep. You need to tiptoe into the living room and play quietly until I wake up.” He said “Okay.” I thought “there is no way in hell this is ever going to work.”

I figured I’d get 10 minutes before he started launching himself off the couch onto something large and squeaky, waking up Georgia and therefore me.

Two hours later, at 7am, I awoke to Rocket holding Georgia by the hand, walking into my room saying “You want to see mama? You want ‘gook’ (nursing)?”

I was aghast. I asked him what he had been doing. He said “playing with my army men.” I almost fell over.

Holy mother of god that never would have happened people EVER EVER EVER.

Here are the other things that have blown my mind:

My kids fight less. They get so bored they actually play with each other.

They get so bored they actually play with their toys.

Ava reads the younger kids stories.

We spend time rolling around on the floor doing absolutely nothing because there’s nothing better to do. Last night we spent an hour on my bed (the 3 kids and I) taking turns making Georgia laugh by putting a book on our head and making it fall.

I thought they would harass and harangue me CONSTANTLY to be entertained. And they did, for the first day or two. And then they got over it. I haven’t heard a single complaint about the T.V. being gone, and I only hear “I’m bored” like once a day. The truth is, I am shocked. I had no idea it would be like this. I really thought the kids would flip out.

The energy in this house is 100% changed. I don’t know why. It just has. It’s like everybody has just been taken down a notch, and everybody’s calmer and more easy-going.

WE HANG OUT WITH EACH OTHER.

Yes, the house is a new level of messy. Toys are freaking everywhere.

Yes, there’s a lot more talking and singing and noise and playing, all the time. And it gets annoying.

And yes, this may be the best thing we’ve ever done.

An old friend of mine was an physician, trained in traditional Western medicine. Through a series of interesting circumstances, he ended up studying acupuncture in China. He now practices acupuncture and Western medicine, but leans toward acupuncture. When I asked him how he was converted to the practice of acupuncture (as he stuck needles in my ear), especially after all that training in the West, he responded, “I don’t believe in this shit, it just works.”

Yep. Pretty much.

I don’t believe in not having a T.V. But for us, it just works.

Don’t get me wrong. We aren’t some Zen rainbows and flowers and patchouli family all the sudden, but we’re damn better than we were before. And I like what I see…

doing nothing, soon to be wrestling. they do this a lot.

DUDE, WAH? This really happened

Playing BARBIES. This has never occurred before.