Tanisha Wallace Porath, Author at Full Grown People

Photo by Mehmet Pinarci/Flickr

By Tanisha Wallace Porath

“You are a train wreck!”

“I’m a train wreck?”

“Yes, a total train wreck.”

“Why? Why am I a train wreck?”

“Because you can’t let go of Peter.”

I’m the fucking train wreck, I’m the train wreck? You… your ex-wife is a macadamia, a certified borderline personality and you picked her, and you always talk about her—she left you six months ago and I can’t let Peter go?

The last sentence only travelled as far as my head. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings or bring up the memory of his ex-wife. I sit quietly on the passenger side of his oversized truck, wondering if what he had said was true. Am I still a train wreck? Will I ever be normal? Will anyone ever see me as normal or am I destined to be “the young widow” for the rest of my days? He grabs my hand and kisses it twice in quick succession. He thinks I’m upset with him but really I’m just lost in thought. We’re headed to a faraway destination, a cabin on a lake and I have two more hours in the car with him, so my decision is clear. Create a box and put his statement into it, open later. My plan falls apart about nine seconds after I create it. I want to talk to him if we are going to be in a relationship. I want to be open and honest but am I too honest? I fear my mouth will betray me and hurting him isn’t an option. When I was married, I could crush Peter’s soul with one or two well crafted, cruel, and just timely enough sentences. I no longer want to be that person. I stay quiet. Oh here we go, I’m talking about Peter again.

He starts asking me question after question, sensing that I’m anywhere but here in his truck. He’s right—the last thirty minutes of this ride have been me obsessing about if people are ever the same after trauma. Do we show our scars forever or do we get an amazing concealer from MAC and cover them? At what point does my inability to let Peter go put a damper on my ability to move forward with another man? This man.

I start to drift off into a spiral of “What ifs”—all pointless but all very relevant to this particular spiral. The worst part of the shame spiral is that I am miles away from a cell tower, headed to a cabin in the middle of nowhere, so I can’t even reach my best friend and her calming, logical words. But since I am in the middle of nowhere, deep in the valley of Idaho, her calming words are out of my reach.

We stop at a lookout point because he wants to show me all of the things he loves about where he lives. We get out of the truck and he comes over to my side. I jump out of the truck and before my feet barely touch the gravel path, he grabs me by my waist and kisses me square on my lips. My mind panics, but when our lips are together I can no longer remember what I was panicked about. I am now panicking because I can’t remember the first panic. Dear God, I am a train wreck. He grabs my hand and walks me over to a steep cliff. My hand start to sweat and he tells me it’s okay, he’s got me. I realize he does have me but more importantly, I have myself. I’m no longer a scared fifteen-year-old that needs to be protected. I am also no longer the scared thirty-eight-year old that needs my husband to stand up for me. My scars are showing but so is my strength. In my head I start to sing that Alanis Morissette song about how she is sick but she’s pretty. Perhaps I am all of the things not just one. As we stand above the vastness of where he lives, among the trees and cliffs, I turn and face him.

“I am a train wreck.”

“So am I,” he says.

He squeezes my hand as we stand together, silent. My last decision before I decide to stop making decisions is to accept my scars, show them to the world, and try my best to avoid fancy concealer.

•••

TANISHA WALLACE PORATH was born a poor black girl in…well actually she had a pretty middle class existence in Anchorage, Alaska, where she was born and raised. She studied photography at an art college in Seattle. Soon after she graduated, she moved to Portland, Oregon, with her husband and started a career as an editorial photographer. Some of her clients have included: Willamette Week, The Oregonian, and several other periodicals. She began writing professionally the spring after her husband died in 2013. Her work has appeared in several online periodicals, including Full Grown People. She has two roommates—her daughter Bronny and her son Duke. Currently, she’s writing her first memoir and pitching agents.

By Tanisha Wallace Porath

I don’t know who I am without Peter. I’m lost on so many levels without him. He’s been dead as of 12:01 p.m., April 2, 2013. I know I’m a parent, a single parent. I know I’m a woman in love with several men. I know that I’m a widow, a word I have grown to hate. But who am I? Without my best friend and husband, who am I?

In an effort to know myself, I have taken every step to ground myself and seek deep spiritual knowledge. I have mined the wells of my soul and gone to the deepest and most powerful source. Not therapy. I’ve been there, done that. Not rehab. As they say, rehab is for quitters and I am no quitter! I have nursed at the teat of the most omnipotent place in the universe. The internet.

I’ve discovered a whole world of quizzes on the interwebs. I’m excited to delve in. Social media sites are the perfect place to seek knowledge and enlightenment—right? This exploration began as an innocent Facebook quiz several hours after my planned bedtime, and it was a doozie.

“Which Golden Girl are you?” I have always maintained that I was Dorothy and I would punch someone’s heart out if they disagreed. So I already know what the test results will be. The quiz is over and I have answered every question to the best of my ability; the little spinny thing moves in circles and the test is calculating. Beep, boop, beep. The results are in and I don’t even have to look at the screen but I do. “You are Blanche!” “Blanche!” I scream at my phone at one a.m.

OH. MY. GOD. I am Blanche. The description goes on to explain to me the qualities of Blanche, which I already know because I watch The Golden Girls every night as a pacifier to insomnia. Blanche is quick witted, as am I. She excels at one liners (well, not to brag), and she’s driven by a need for attention, which, the test informs me, is why I’m always late. I need attention, of course. Blanche makes every boy fall for her and she has the fearless tenacity to back it up. Yep! I have slept with several men since Peter died. Once again, OH.MY.GOD. That must be why I am so sad losing Peter—I’m obsessed with men and sex. I am a quick witted, fast talking slut that needs attention from men to survive. What a relief! Now I can proceed to the process of grieving as Blanche would grieve. Or should I say the way Blanche did grieve because she is also my neighbor in the “widowhood.”

The next day I walk around in a sleepless haze but confident in the knowledge that I’m a Blanche. My whole world has changed from black and white to color, just as I now imagine how men feel when they meet me. I’m more flirty with my boyfriend. I’m happy to openly acknowledge that I enjoy the company of boys, or as Blanche would call them … men. I need more, now! I need to know more about myself, pronto! Facebook is such a tremendous way to find these life changing quizzes, so forward I go, desperate in my need for more self-awareness. Luckily, I don’t sleep anymore. This is a spectacular life decision for me.

Every woman thinks she’s Carrie and, really, she is the Carrie of her own life. But armed with my new Blanche diagnosis, I fully expect that just like with the Golden Girls quiz, I’ll be wrong and I will indeed be Samantha. Twelve questions and three minutes later, I discover that I’m correct. Samantha it is, she is me. I wonder to myself, “But am I really proud of my sex life and my newfound sexual freedom?” Well I must be. The Facebook quiz says I am. I can’t get enough of this newfound insight.

Back to Facebook, but this time I need in-depth quizzes, something that speaks to my very core. I search for more; I casually ask my best friend if she has seen any fun or interesting quizzes anywhere. Lorie doesn’t skip a beat and casually mentions a few fun quizzes that she’s seen on Buzzfeed. Now we both take quizzes on Facebook and Buzzfeed, and since we can never do anything alone, we ask each other the questions and score each other’s tests. Man! What a blast! Look at me, talking with friends, doing something! I really am Samantha!

I’ve learned so much about myself, and these quizzes are the main reason. I’ve done an amazing job of avoid the impending pain and the sleepless nights that accompany the anniversary of my husband’s death. Screw being horizontal, crying on a therapist couch—I never really laid down anyway.

Maybe this should be my new career, creating quizzes for social media. I could start with “Which Facts of Life girl are you? Blair or Tootie? Do you enjoy motorcycles like Jo?” Then I could move on to more complex quizzes like “Are you and your best friend really secret enemies?” This is genius!

I’ve learned so many things about my newfound single self that I do a quick run-down. I know that my Ennegram personality is a loyalist and I thrive on love and my intuition. Interesting. I learned that if I were to be a yogi, balance is crucial to my well-being. Fascinating. I now also know that I will get remarried at the age of thirty-three. I am currently forty-three. I know that I am a slut that thrives on attention, especially from men, and Claire from The Breakfast Club is my spirit animal, which fits because I have always wanted to fuck Judd Nelson.

My newfound interest in the internet has provided me with the perfect distraction. I get to escape life for a brief time. I get to postpone the devastating heartbreak that accompanies the anniversary of my husband’s death. I get to pretend that I’ve found meaning in my new life without him. What could be better than that?

•••

TANISHA PORATH was born a poor black girl in…well, actually she had a pretty middle class existence in Anchorage, Alaska, where she was born and raised. She studied photography at an art college in Seattle, the name of which, try as she might, she can’t quite remember. Soon after she graduated, she moved to Portland, Oregon, with her husband and started her career as an editorial photographer. Some of her clients have included Willamette Week, The Oregonian, and several other periodicals. She has two roommates that she happens to have given birth to, her daughter, fourteen, and her son, seventeen. She became a widow on April 2, 2013. She became a writer on April 3, 2013.

Author: Tanisha Wallace Porath

Train Wreck

Know Thyself