A Love Letter to The Bitch

Dear Rob,

I’ve been having a conversation with you for a very long time. And I just realized … using digital technology … today you could hear me.

Twenty years ago, ish, you came into my life via the local paper in Missoula, Montana. I can’t remember what concern nudged me toward the horoscope (I “don’t believe in” it). But your paragraph was so relevant and startlingly appropriate … I began picking up the paper just to peek at what you said.

Over time, you became: The Bitch.

Now, it’s important to know that my loved ones and I have a ritual. When they say that exact right thing, shoot the arrow that reveals something I’m avoiding … I say, “Fuck you.”

They celebrate getting fuck-yous. When together, they compare their prowess. And I, of course, enjoy every minute of it. Because they’ve enabled me to give an emotionally honest response that is also full of appreciation and respect (all mixed together in a love soup).

So … imagine the level of repetitive accuracy someone must achieve in order to become The Bitch. A person who is a fuck-you machine on a regular basis.

Nowadays, loved ones will ask me, “What did the Bitch say?” Especially if they see me glowering over an email. When I share your paragraph with only “The Bitch said …” as an introduction, they hear the snarky resignation and the “yes, yes, this is ridiculously correct” behind it. A shared, ironic eye roll.

Today: I have just signed a contract with a French lawyer to begin the emigration process. Obviously, the news headlines and the millions—zillions, even—of uncertainties are driving me mad. I was avoiding writing, focusing, coding, working in favor of flipping around looking for something to ease my fears. Missing deadlines to look up housing listings one more time, one more time, one more time.

And found your email. I opened it as a distraction … I should have known better.

“A greenhouse can coax flowers to open ahead of their natural timetable. I recommend applying a similar approach to the fears taking root in you. Rather than letting them spread gradually and feed you a stream of low-grade dread, push them toward an immediate peak. Let every concern become enormous and fully formed as quickly as possible. Invite the anxieties to arrive all at once. Then meet them in a decisive confrontation, exhaust their drama, and clear space for adventures that will give you deep, sweet pleasure. Set a date for your worrygasm, the grand finale of your fretting, for no later than 48 hours from now.”

You didn’t hear me. But given all you have done for me, I felt like you should. So here it is:

Fuck you.

With warm appreciation,
Diana