Saturday Mourning: Liminality as Home

On what it means to be in-between two things without names for either of them

Good morning! Happy Saturday. Today’s essay—about antidepressants, sleep disorders, and coping mechanisms—is for paying subscribers. Paying subscribers make Dog-Eared possible, as their patronage allows me the flexibility to write a variety of pieces several times a week. If you are interested in upgrading your subscription or even gifting a subscription to a friend, you can do so by clicking the buttons below. A monthly or yearly subscription grants you access to Saturday Mournings—personal essays about loss and memory—as well as to my Process Diaries, which are craft-focused explorations of my own writing and writing more generally. These are in addition to the free essays and reading recommendations that come out every Wednesday and on alternating Sundays.

As always, thank you for being a member of the Dog-Eared community. See you here for tomorrow’s essay, “#4: The Things We Keep,” which will be available to all subscribers and will discuss, among several things, the role our possessions play in defining who we are. Until then, here’s today’s Saturday Mourning:

Saturday Mourning: Existing in a Liminal State

One evening when I was fifteen years old, I had woken up at the end of my driveway. It was early in October or November—the air crisp with a late-autumn chill—and I was there, waiting for the bus, until I finally woke up and realized that I had been dreaming the entire time.