.SOMETIMES RAW.

I sometimes write things down to comfort myself. Stuff learned in bad times. Thoughts. Meditations. Lists. Examples. Things I want to remind myself of. Or things I have learned from other people or other lives. It is a strange paradox, that many of the clearest, most comforting life lessons are learned while we are at our lowest. We never think about food more than when we are hungry and we never think about life rafts more than when we are thrown overboard. So, these are some of my life rafts. The thoughts that have kept me afloat. I hope some of them might carry you to dry land, too.

It’s okay to be a mess. It’s okay to wear the scars of experience. It’s okay to like what you like. It’s okay to be sentimental and whimsical and cry bittersweet tears at songs and movies you aren’t supposed to love. It’s okay to be who you are. It’s okay to make the most of every chunk of time.

Change is real: We turn keys all the time. Or rather, time turns keys all the time. Because time means change. And change is the nature of life—the reason to hope.

To be is to let go. Self-forgiveness makes the world better.

In order to get over a problem it helps to look at it. You can’t climb a mountain that you pretend isn’t there.

Aim to be You: If you aim to be something you are not, you will always fail. Aim to be you. Aim to look and act and think like you. Embrace that you-ness. Endore it. Cherish it. Love it. And don’t give a f*** if people mock you for it.

When things go dark, you can’t see what you have. That doesn’t mean you don’t have those things. Those things remain, right there in front of you. All you need is to light a candle or ignite some hope, and you can see that what you thought was lost was merely hidden.

One day this will all be over. And we will be grateful for life in ways we never felt possible before.

We grow through hard times. Growth is change. And when everything is easy, we have no reason to change. The most painful moments in life expand us. And when the pain leaves, space remains. Space we can fill with life itself.

Love stillness. Slowness. When nothing is happening. The blueness of the sky. Inhaling clean air. Birdsong over traffic. Lone footsteps. I used to think the quiet patches felt dead. Now they feel more alive. Like leaning over and listening to the earth’s heartbeat.

Don’t envy things you wouldn’t actually want. Don’t absorb criticism from people you wouldn’t go to for advice. Don’t fear missing parties you would probably want to leave. Don’t worry about fitting in. Be your own tribe. Don’t argue with people who will never understand you. Don’t believe anyone has it all figured out. Don’t imagine there is an amount of money or success or fame that could insulate you from pain.

For when you hit rock bottom: You have survived everything you have been through and will survive this, too. You are more than a bad day, or week, or month, or year, or even decade. You are a future of multifarious possibilities. You are another self at a point in future time looking back in gratitude that this lost and former you held on.

To remember during the bad days: It won’t last. You have felt other things. You will feel other things again. Emotions are like weather. They change and shift. Clouds can seem as still as stone. We look at them and hardly notice a change at all. And yet they always move. The worst part of any experience is where you feel like you can’t take it anymore. You are still here. And that is everything.

You can try to organize your experience but you can not actually control time itself. Try to enjoy moments of rest when they come. The waiting is part of it.

As soon as we realize that it is not our job to be perfect, everything gets easier and more honest and more true.

And now ask yourself: If you could strip away all your distractions and obligations, who would you be left with?

*Random things that I think about during the day. Some call me “different”.

A baby?

I definitely wouldn’t bring a baby. That would be so unwise, so I can confidently say I wouldn’t do it. That’s a good choice, right? Because then I’d have to bring the baby plus all the baby supplies. And I’d have the added difficulty of having to take care of the baby while also trying to survive myself—too many moving parts. Also, the baby doesn’t have any helpful survival skills like hunting, fishing, constructing shelters, etc. So pretty much just a total liability.

My Son’s Nintendo Switch?

Totally impractical. Like, yeah, maybe fun, but probably not something I would put in my top three if somebody asked, right? Like that would be embarrassingly wrong?

Captain Flint?

I want to say no? Or, wait, maybe yes? I’ll put a pin in this one for a moment. Forget I mentioned it. Captain Flint obviously has to come.

Bubble gum?

Haha, that would be so stupid. Unless you’re some sort of bubblegum whiz, who can construct almost anything out of bubblegum? Or maybe these lollipops with bubble gum in them? Or the ones that colour your tongue blue or green? Yeah, better no bubble gum.

A true-to-life wax sculpture of Arnold Schwarzenegger?

Even though seeing a human face while stranded alone would probably be good for my mental health, the wax would melt pretty quickly. And wax sculptures can’t talk, so it wouldn’t be actual human company. And even if it could talk, I’m not sure Arnie would be my first choice of conversation partner. Like, I’d definitely choose a wax sculpture of Hemingway, Pessoa, Roth, or Murakami, over Schwarzenegger. I’d honestly probably just stay away from wax sculptures entirely—I’ve never really seen the appeal. Also, it could be scary waking up in the middle of the night to see a half-melted Schwarzenegger standing over me. Also, I’m pretty sure Madame Tussauds doesn’t rent those out. Could make for a good Instagram post, though. Wait, should I be bringing my phone?

A bunch of loose printer paper?

What the hell would I even do with that? No.

Bug spray?

This one feels tempting, but ultimately it’s a no. I can just swim around in the water to get away from bugs. And I need to save the three items I would bring for things that are really smart and good, and that would impress a Reddit thread filled with top-notch survivalists out for my metaphorical blood, like Band-Aids or a big knife or something. Don’t hold me to those, though, because, like I said, I don’t know which three things I would bring, only that bug spray is probably not one of them.

Ravioli?

This one is laughably incorrect! No qualms at all about leaving this one behind. It’s not even my favourite pasta dish, let alone my favourite food. I don’t know if people even say that any sort of food is a good thing to bring. But if it is, I would absolutely bring a gourmet hot dog, or even cheese tortellini over ravioli. Maybe

Extra underwear?

So, from what I gather, you get to wear clothes when you go to this island in addition to bringing three other things. And the general consensus is to just stick with what you’re originally wearing, right? Like dress for the weather and all that, but no need to pack extra clothes. Especially when you can just wear like six pairs of underwear so you’ll have extra anyway. That’s actually a pretty good loophole—there are no rules against that, right?

A couple hundred big balloons?

I know what you’re thinking: “But this would make a great getaway device to fly away from the island and save yourself!” Well, I’m not falling for the Upscenario that everyone wants you to believe. I’m pretty sure I saw a YouTube video explaining why a bunch of balloons physically couldn’t lift a house, so I’m not really ready to bet my life on that plan. Up is a children’s film, not real life—I know that now. Plus, it kind of feels like cheating to choose “a couple hundred” balloons as one of your three items.

Hammock?

I saw someone say they’d bring this once, and I couldn’t believe how dumb they were being. Every island survival list I’ve ever read suggests bringing this as your fourth or even fifth thing, but definitely not top three—I would never choose something so obviously not top three. Okay, maybe, at one point in my life, I might have chosen this one, but I was naïve back then. I’m older now, smarter. I won’t let the cruel, anti-hammock comments determine my self-worth. Everyone was like, “Really? A hammock? That’s in your top three?” and “What else are you going to bring? A cooking pot?” Honestly, I couldn’t tell whether that was supposed to be a good thing or a bad thing, but it felt mean-spirited. They made me feel so bad and embarrassed and like a total survival novice—never again. I will rule out every possible embarrassing answer until I hone in on the elusive and objectively correct top three answers. This shall be my life’s work, the achievement upon which I stake my name and my reputation. I will not fail. To be in a Hammock with Captain Flint sounds pretty cool though.

A bunch of batteries?

Uh… I don’t know, maybe? Like maybe battery juice is good for something on an island? Maybe for a megaphone? I heard you can easily attach a bunch of them together and turn them all on at once. I’ll google it.

*for my godmother Hannelore. Because we spoke about it last Monday.

1. Rent one big house together. Working “together” to choose a house, everyone should drag their feet and be overly polite until the bossiest one just takes care of it. The Boss should resent that they had to do everything. Everyone else should resent that The Boss got to make the decision. No one should say anything (yet).

2. Gather funding. This financial component is essential for establishing tension from the start because everyone in your family has different incomes. Even The Boss (who is the wealthiest) says, “Whoa,” upon seeing the price per night.

3. Make sure the house is spacious enough to accommodate everyone (technically) but also no one (comfortably). Some variations to maximize relationship destruction:

• Select a house with one fewer master suite than the number of couples. Don’t forget to unfairly resent the couple who didn’t get an ensuite bathroom.
• Select a house with enough beds for every kid but one.
• Put every kid in a sleeping bag on the floor except one, who gets a bed. Because, as everyone knows, Clarissa is a little princess who’s done no wrong since the day she was born, and what, now you’re mad at, like, a child?

Note: Everyone must hate the house but say they love it.

4. Invite that estranged family member. Or you know what, don’t. Either way, someone’s going to be furious.

5. Bring a ridiculous amount of food. Each family should bring enough food to feed eighteen families for four months—except the one family who brings enough to feed one family for one week. Unreasonably label the reasonable family “stingy.”

6. Demand that everyone eat what you brought.

7. Retain some very specific and important rules about what should not be eaten. Do not tell anyone what they are. Become quietly angry when the rules are violated.

8. Consent to all dinner plans. But as game-time approaches, start to cook something else entirely. Take up a lot of burners; always somehow be in the way of the assigned chef. Claim the menu shift is due to dietary restrictions, but really you just want something else, and, like, it’s YOUR vacation, too, right? At least once, “remind” someone who’s already made you dinner that you have plans to eat out. Also, let the same two people do the dishes after every meal. If you’re one of them, sigh audibly. But say nothing (yet).

9. Carry all earthly possessions to the beach. Basketball and bocce and volleyball and football, and what the fuck are they getting out, a badminton net? Drag it all down a giant dune and forget about the trip back up. The Boss should force the family members who brought only a towel and a book to play badminton, and then everyone should think, if Diana and Michael were so keen to play badminton, why didn’t they lug down a shopping cart of beach equipment themselves?

10. Play board games 24-7 for some reason. Without clearly delineated winners and losers, everyone risks surviving vacation feeling calm, even pleasantly refreshed. Bonus: no matter how competitive you are, anyone either more or less competitive than you is super annoying.

11. Finally explode—but on the wrong person. Try taking it out on the kids because they are an easy target. Or that one widowed family member who can’t call for backup. Get it all out. There’s a lot in there.

12. Hide in that one tucked-away bathroom, as you have been doing all week. Only this time, stay in there for so long that everyone starts to talk in hushed, reverent tones about you. Cry and scream.

13. “Apologize” for exploding. Play nice in the final eight minutes of vacation. Smile. Give everyone a hug. There. That’s your apology.

14. As you pull out of the driveway, tell everyone we should definitely do this again next summer. Same house, same mini golf where Uncle John threw a hissy fit about how Uncle Billy doesn’t correctly calculate penalty strokes, same everything.

14. On the ride home, strap in for the long, damning post-mortem with your spouse. Add screaming, crying kids. This is the best part. This is your true vacation.

15. Kind of miss the whole thing the instant you’re home. It wasn’t so bad, right? It was kind of fun. Reinforce this idea by telling everyone at the office that it was great. This is just the kind of mind that will get you back in the family van next summer.

If these strategies fail to spark bitter acrimony among your extended family, try again next vacation. And add alcohol. And more screaming, crying kids.