Reason for Living #9: Chrysalis
i met my younger self for coffee today
Today’s guest essayist on REASONS FOR LIVING with Esmé Weijun Wang is
St. Claire.there is always us
i met my younger self for coffee today
The thing nobody tells you about near-death experiences is that you don’t stop feeling dead once they bring you back.
There’s a poem I adore by Jesse Parent in which he’s speaking from the perspective of Lazarus, angry and jaded, and asking Jesus why He didn’t come back to perform a miracle sooner.
“I still carry that corpse’s stench,” he says. “That spoiled meat. Four days. Why did you wait so long?”
Why did I wait so long, indeed? A surgeon once drained a liter of blood from my chest after a seizure sent me tumbling down, and my ribs have felt awfully empty ever since. Or maybe they always were, and the hematoma formed to fill them, eager to please and aching to touch something solid, as all desperate things are. Maybe it wanted to fill me up and empty me at the same time. How’s that for a metaphor about self-abandonment?
I don’t know if she’s referring to the name Mama almost gave us when we were set to be born a boy or the character we created at 12 whose full name I now bear, but when I reply, “That’s the one,” with practiced ease, she laughs.
I met my younger self for coffee today. Naturally, her first question comes out plainly, “Where are our boobs?”
I resist the urge to laugh at her deeply ingrained self-denial and slide my ID across the table. “Turns out we’re kind of a dude.”
At this point, enduring girlhood is the only option on her mind. I expect her to linger on the words kind of, to grill me about the specifics of our presentation vs. our identity. Instead, she stares at the plastic rectangle with my legal name and gender marker, and for a moment, her eyes go starry.
“Elijah,” she reads, as though reciting a line from her favorite book. “Elijah, like—”
I don’t know if she’s referring to the name Mama almost gave us when we were set to be born a boy or the character we created at 12 whose full name I now bear, but when I reply, “That’s the one,” with practiced ease, she laughs.
I am surprised to hear her laugh.
Maybe because I know she feels she has so little to live for. Everything still feels so fragile, and the sad part is, she’s not wrong about that; everything is fragile. Finite. Temporary. Maybe that’s why I don’t know what I’m living for, either — and not in a depressing, pessimistic way. I mean the answer is eluding me. It has eluded me for most of my life, hence why this poor thing is here, sitting across the table and gripping the edge of her seat like she’s waiting to fall, weightless, into an imagined abyss and wake from a dream.
“So,” she says, failing miserably to mask her nerves, “we’re a fuckin’ nerd.”
Despite the tension, I can’t help the swell of pride in my chest or how it cracks my mouth open into a shit-eating grin. “Damn straight.”
Picking at the peeling lip of her paper cup, she shifts her weight from one hip to the other. By now, her pain is there but not nearly as intense as mine. I don’t have the heart to warn her about that part.
About the years of testing and stress and suicidal ideation to come. I’m too cowardly to admit how close I’ve come to dying on purpose rather than by accident. So I just watch her. Watch how her knees bounce beneath the table and howshe tries, mostly in vain, to stop it. How she glances from my hands to the street behind me, like she’s waiting for someone else to appear.
“Are you…” she starts, clearing her throat to muster some courage. “Are you still together?” My voice sounds shaky, even to my ears. “Yes.”
She doesn’t miss it — how I hesitate. Her eyes go big. Black holes where her pupils should be. “Is— Is there a ‘but’ coming after that?”
“Things have changed,” I try. I don’t know how to find the right words. How to soften the blow of the battle for survival we’ve just been through. “We’ve changed.”
“But he still loves you, right?”
This time, I don’t resist my laughter. It’s not cutting; instead, I feel a sad, sharp kind of warmth in my chest, and I take her hand in mine. I hold her in my grip like her life depends on it, because it does, and I lean closer, if only to get her to look at the future mirror of my face.
The question is predictable. As natural as asking what happened to the parts of us I’ve had removed. Her attention, previously distracted and skittish, becomes surgical: she stares me down like I’m a smear on a petri dish beneath a microscope, like, if she can just figure out what she’s looking at, she can prevent catastrophe.
“Yes,” I repeat, steadier now, “but that isn’t the only thing I care about. It can’t be.” I don’t know which one of us I’m trying to convince.
She blinks. A deer looking up just as headlights cast its shadow on the road. Her voice is low and breathy, bordering on breaking as she whispers, “What else is there?”
This time, I don’t resist my laughter. It’s not cutting; instead, I feel a sad, sharp kind of warmth in my chest, and I take her hand in mine. I hold her in my grip like her life depends on it, because it does, and I lean closer, if only to get her to look at the future mirror of my face. When she finally does, I smile, hoping she’ll commit the sight to memory. Hoping she can endure these next few years, so long as she remembers what peace beyond fortitude looks like.
“Oh, baby,” I say. “There’s us. There is always us.”
St. Claire. is the author of the short stories "Ideation," "Reclamation," and "Mother Sun, Mama God," as well as many overly sentimental essays about love, life, and grief. When he's not working on his manuscript or writing for his Substack blog, "The Let Grow," he's communing with Mother Nature in the Appalachian mountains and warding off yet another existential crisis.
10% of the proceeds from this edition will be donated to Beauty After Bruises, an org that serves abuse survivors with dissociative disorders.
I write because it’s what I do best, and REASONS FOR LIVING with Esmé Weijun Wang is where I share my most personal, thoughtful work—the kind of essays that don’t fit anywhere else. If you enjoy what I write, I’d love for you to become a paid subscriber.
Paid subscribers get two exclusive essays per month in addition to the biweekly Reasons for Living essays, as well as an invite to our monthly Fireside Chats—intimate conversations about creativity, resilience, and the things that keep us going. Your support doesn’t just help sustain this newsletter; it helps sustain me as a writer and artist who is unable to work at a traditional job.
If Reasons for Living has moved you, challenged you, or given you something to hold onto, I hope you’ll consider subscribing. If a paid subscription isn’t possible, a free one is just as appreciated. Either way, I’m grateful you’re here.
Callisto’s Song
By Jo Shapcott
* stars * stars * stars * stars * and * I *
* am * made * of * them * now * looking *
* down * on * myself * then * a * colorito * woman * yes*
* that * was * me * in * my * red * sandals * the * great *
* outdoors * curtained * golden * embroidered *
* and * heatshimmer * above * blue * mountains *
* nothing * vertical * not * even * the * plinth * and *
* no * speech * no * names * then * just * a * cry *
* as * the * busy * body * nymphs * stripped * me * because *
* we * all * had * rounded * bellies * then * but *
* nine * months * gone * so * my * navel * curved *
* like * a * gash * o * so * noticeable *
* among * all * the * diagonals * and * everyone *
* looking * a *different * way * looking * a * lot *
* especially * the * goddess * at * me * arrow-arm *
* pointing * bow-mouth * strung * and * dogs * crouched *
* because * they * sensed * consequences * and * gods *
* arriving * and * doing * what * gods * do * upstairs * and *
* the * artist’s * finger * loaded * and * the * paint * alive *
* alive * with * stars * stars * stars * stars * stars *
Elijah’s essay is about speaking to his younger self. When was a time in your life when you changed? Describe a conversation between you and your younger, different self.
I write because it’s what I do best, and REASONS FOR LIVING with Esmé Weijun Wang is where I share my most personal, thoughtful work—the kind of essays that don’t fit anywhere else. If you enjoy what I write, I’d love for you to become a paid subscriber.
Paid subscribers get two exclusive essays per month in addition to the biweekly Reasons for Living essays, as well as an invite to our monthly Fireside Chats—intimate conversations about creativity, resilience, and the things that keep us going. Your support doesn’t just help sustain this newsletter; it helps sustain me as a writer and artist who is unable to work at a traditional job.
If Reasons for Living has moved you, challenged you, or given you something to hold onto, I hope you’ll consider subscribing. If a paid subscription isn’t possible, a free one is just as appreciated. Either way, I’m grateful you’re here.
 | A guest post by
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I'm currently slurping liquidy homemade applesauce in a body that doesn't consume solid food much anymore. This was what I needed today, apparently. The brown sugar tastes richer, the apples feel more toothsome, and I feel more normal. Thank you. <3
I adore this.