Eve.

Hi, little Eve.

You may know me as "that-far-away-deeper-toned-droning-underwater-voice-that-never-shuts-up,-seriously,-never." Also, I'm the bigger hand that you sometimes feel push back when you're kicking your mom's bladder and ribs in the morning.

I'm your dad.

Can you believe that we're actually going meet in three months? Yeah, "Jump back!" is what I said, too.

Your mom and I found out that you were a girl just a week ago. Your mom was so happy she almost started crying when they told us (you'll realize just how significant that is as you get to know her). She had tears in her eyes and covered her mouth with one hand and squeezed my hand really hard with the other as she laid on her back with blue goop smeared all over her you-filled-belly. It was a crazy-beautiful moment.

Headed into the ultrasound, I really didn't have a feeling whether you were a boy or a girl, but I felt prepared for either scenario; it's all I've been imagining for the last six months, you know? It was all ridiculously exciting, right?

Well. I was not prepared. I did not have any idea what it would feel like when that technician told us you were a girl. I was stunned. Shocked, even. Hell, let's call it a feeling-supernova. It was like being handed an atomic bomb and trying to fit it into my back pocket and carry it around with me.

Eve, there's a massive world out here and it's beautiful and tragic and hilarious and lovely and murderous and precious and you're my daughter.

It can be hard for me not to feel anxious when your mother goes places without me.

I mean... God help us, Eve. It is madness out here. I've realized that there's a blackhole in the center of my feeling-supernova, and it's fear. How jacked-up is that? They told me you were a girl, and one of the first thoughts I had after we walked out of that radiology lab was what a dangerous place the world is for you in ways that it is just not for me, solely because I passed you my X chromosome instead of my Y.

So many humans are utter animals, and half of those animals are like me. Men. And women, too- so many people who will want to devour your vulnerability. Devour your humanity.

I never could have imagined the amount of pain I'd see your mom go through in the last five years. I didn't understand how savagely, how systemically, people prey on the humanity and vulnerability of women.

I didn't understand that I was am one of those people.

Eve, I'm your dad, so listen to me-

You are an immortal, God-like soul with unfathomable potential and, God willing, your mother's brains. I'm overwhelmed at the thought of what you're like, what's in you to do.

Trust your vulnerability. When you feel like I'm trying to control you, be defensive. When you feel manipulated, dig in your heels and scream. Embarrass me publicly. Be angry when I violate your sovereignty and be slow to open back up to me when I do.

I know when you're one-year-old and trying to shove metal things into power outlets, we're gonna have it out. I know when we've put you into bed for the sixth time and you continue to insist you've not had adequate amounts of water, I'm going to want to crush your resistance and make my life easier.

Fight me. I want you to feel and be powerful in every single conflict we ever have, because everywhere you go, with everyone you meet, you have to know that you are powerful, and the world needs you to be who you are.

When you listen to me, I want it to be because you are convinced, in that very moment, that I would die for you to be free, loved, and powerful. That I am using my influence and power to benefit you, not me.

You, not me.

You are not a gift for me. Nothing about you, your purpose, or your life is for me.

The gift to me is that I will get to know you. In a way that no one else in the whole damn world ever will. See you grow. Teach you how to pump your legs and swing by yourself. How to swim. Make huge messes and be really loud. My gift is that I that I get to be here for you.

I'm so freaking excited, Eve. I can't wait to be insanely sleep-deprived.

I'm so glad you're coming to live with us.

You Have Forgotten.

I have not written anything for months.

Even now, I am fighting the empty pressure in my head. In normal conversation I've been doing fine, but every time I sit down at my laptop, typewriter, notebook, or anything- nothing. I get nothing.

"Read something! Prime the pump!"

I have been. The Atonement: Four Views, The War of Art, some Kipling, and I recently rediscovered two of my earliest journals, circa. 2004. Just reconnecting with that voice, that person- is a painful and troubling experience; the kind of experience that formerly provoked all kinds of discussion and narrative in my head.

But not today. Not for months.

Without a doubt, I got more feedback from my last post than all other things I have ever written combined. Some of it affirmative, some of it advising, some of it critical and dissuasive.

In writing, I feel that I can hold my ground. I can transform my thoughts into the words that I feel best carry my meaning. I don't feel the pressure of someone else's moment-by-moment emotions. Good or bad. Especially bad, though. Disappointment, hurt, anger, disdain- any of the feelings that get expressed during conflict in relationships. When those emotions start manifesting in front of me, they become hijackers on my train of thought. They tell me that I've done something wrong. They tell me I need to fix something.

And I start backing down. Looking for ways to discredit my motives so that I can agree with the feeling that this was my mistake, so then I can fix it. Apologizing. Floundering.

Then, months later, I sit in the quiet of my home, trying to coax my voice out of wherever-the-hell it went.

And I feel this blank pressure. This internal block.

I feel like my inside-self is in there, gnashing his teeth, totally unwilling to open up. Because sure as he does, I'm gonna throw us both under the bus again. I'll cave. I'll say I was wrong to have done it like I did it. I'll make it my responsibility to change or discredit myself adequately to neutralize the conflict.

I came across a forgotten, unpublished entry on my blog from back in March. It was a single sentence that read,

"How little does it take to shut me down?"

Not that I want to feel capable of streamrolling over people or not care what they're feeling/saying. But I struggle to be true to myself in conflict. That's the problem. Hell, I struggle to be true to myself at all. Even when it's positive feedback; that can become a hijacker. And sure, while some people want me to neutralize the conflict or address their concerns, no one wants me to like I do.

No one has my back less than me.

And after months of blank, months of trying to say anything, I feel like, right now, I finally see that.

That's gonna have to stop.