To the Five Boroughs

I went to bed Tuesday night before the president elect was announced but it was looking like a Republican win. I had the song, “It Takes Time to Build” by Beastie Boys stuck in my head when my head hit the pillow. I wanted to cry. My head was periodically rippling with sharp pains. My husband held me and we fell into each other without thought. Our infant daughter awoke around 4:00 AM; my husband whispered over her head, “President Trump.” That song was in my head again. “It takes a second to wreck it.” I felt a pain in my head again as I tried to accept the very thing I was dreading since the DNC announced Hillary as their candidate. “It takes time to build.”

I began to feel unsafe. Women always have that fear in the back of their heads that is instilled in them from the moment they are born. We are objects made for the desires of men and since they are bigger, stronger, more experienced in taking control, we don’t stand a chance against them. I don’t expect every woman feels this imbalance the same way but we do all feel it. I use it as an excuse. “It takes a second to wreck it.” If I make myself undesirable then I will not be a victim again. I push people away. I don’t need attention from anyone. I’ve never craved to be the center of the room and if I ever happen to feel eyes on me, I’m looking away. I’m looking down, over, up, anywhere but in someone’s eyes. If they look into my eyes they will see the real me. The me I hide. To protect myself from judgment. From sexual advances. From praise I cannot accept. I don’t feel worthy of compliments. I don’t want to acknowledge that I am being criticized directly. I know what I think about myself. I’ve said the worst things to myself. I know what other people think of me. I’m not blind. I’m not stupid. I’m over analyzing everything. Every conversation, every gesture, facial expression, inflection. I will twist everything you will say into a black ball of sticky hate and bath myself in it. I will loathe myself for saying the wrong thing. Doing the wrong thing. Liking the wrong people. Loving the wrong people. I sink into my-shitty-self. I won’t even try to catch myself on the fall. I just close my eyes and accept the darkness. Welcome, friend. Let’s prepare for these cold shakes and bundle up. Better get some deodorant for that anxious sweat that is about to stink up all your shirts. I allow this to take over me because I do not wish to be desired. I don’t want to be the best person I can be. It’s too hard. I give up. I want to just wallow in my sadness and feel it. I need to just accept that I’m a fat, ugly bitch. Inside and out. I let this become an excuse to use when I see someone more fit. All of this rushes over me so quickly that I barely see it. It’s been there the whole time. Always waiting for the opportunity to extinguish my beautiful flame. The flame that keeps me humble. Happy, even. Satisfied with my choices. The flame that says, ‘not today’ to my excuses. The light that keeps the darkness at bay.  

I have many excuses right now about staying inside and eating my feelings. I’m an introvert and I certainly don’t have many reasons to leave the house by myself to begin with. Having an infant is a big excuse I use. She may be fussy and I allow it to be my reason to stay inside. To shut the door and sit on the couch. My toddler may begin to get cabin fever and start testing the limits of my patience. “Oh, I can’t take him anywhere, he may run away from me. I’m too tired for that,” I think to myself. I hear the words of a woman who claimed to be my friend, “I just don’t think you can handle two kids. I mean, you can barely handle the one.” I let it be my motto. I’ll just sit here and accept that I’m just not the type of person who should have children. It was a mistake. One I can’t take back. One that I, deep down, would never give up. That hidden flame of the love I have for my children glows in my view. The love I have for my family. For my husband. My mother. My sisters. For humanity to make the right choices. “It takes time to build.” 

I find myself accepting old habits. Eating when I’m not hungry. More sugar. Probably can just eat like two more fun sized candy bars. They are like one bite of candy. I can have a couple. Well, I can have more. Two wasn’t that satisfying. I can have like three more. Then I can eat lunch. Or dinner. Or second lunch. Or whatever. What time is it even? I can just eat more. Not a big deal. I’m making milk for my daughter. She needs it. She’s growing. *I will myself to turn my fat into more breastmilk.* It’s Wednesday. I might as well just wait until Thursday to get back into my workouts. The calendar says what workout to do on specific days. Friday is the rest day. I have a hard time working out six days a week. But I want to keep up with the calendar. But I need rest after five days. After five days, my body gives up. I wake up with an all over body tired. I’ll just let it go. I don’t need those thoughts. I hear the spinal fluid releasing pressure in my neck. I feel the symptoms of a cold. It’s Thursday now and I am just too sick to workout. I’ll just try for tomorrow. I will just count this as my rest day this week. It’ll be okay. I’ll workout another day. I know I can lose weight. I’ve done it before. I can shave off twenty pounds at least. I just need to focus on healthy food and how I feel when I eat healthy food. I’ll just make sure and cook from home. I’ll make most of my plate vegetables. It’ll work out. Oh, my son wants pizza for dinner. Well we are out of the ingredients to make it. I’m not leaving the house. I’ll just order pizza. Extra garlic sauce. Obviously. And a cookie. Or two. Or three. At least no one will see this side of me. I’ll stay inside. They don’t want to see me anyways. I’m not a nice person. I hurt everyone around me. I say the wrong things. I do the wrong things. I make the wrong gestures. No one understands my intentions. I might as well just stay at home and put on some pajamas. Oh, I’m still wearing them from last night. Well. Okay. I’ll change into new pajamas. I mean, that’s gross, right? I should take a shower tomorrow morning. 

“It takes time to build.” It’s Friday and I just needed to cry. I keep checking Facebook as if I’m waiting for an important message. The news that we were wrong. That it’s a Hillary win. I was already dreading it. I don’t really like Hillary either. At least she didn’t talk about deporting people, grabbing woman’s genitals, and repealing LGBT rights. I don’t know what else to cling onto. My husband is building his business. He’s enjoying it. I’m too sad to enjoy it. I already accepted the darkness. I already filled up my tub with that goopy black shit that threatens to drown me. The one that I agree I deserve to wallow in. The one that has always had a hold on me for as long as I can remember. The same darkness that has evolved from when I was a child sitting in the backseat of the car in the dark trying over and over again to attempt the spelling of ‘psycho’ on a pad of paper because I knew something was wrong with me. I must be crazy. The same sludge that allowed me to be baited by a teenage boy in the grade above me. To listen to him as he lifted my chin and told me into my eyes that I was worth something. For him to use me. For me to use him. I found a power in the darkness. I can conquer anyone! It felt… bad. Very bad. What was I doing? But the release felt… good. It was briefly freeing. I was in charge. Wasn’t I? I looked around and I had no one. Just him. It was scary but I was empowered. Wasn’t I? I kept going. Don’t regret. Just keep going. I had fears. I indulged them. I wasn’t wrong. Sometimes I was wrong. Really wrong. Sometimes I was right but he was still saying I was wrong. That made my head hurt. I laid in bed for hours while my head pounded with a migraine. I cried and cried. My mother tried to find out what was wrong. I pushed her away. I said things that made her never want to come back. “Fine,” she said. She went downstairs. I curled into a ball and cried. I let the bathtub in my mind fill. I did a cannon ball into it. It enveloped me. Completely. I let it suck me down, deep. I found a facade and I used that to hide me in the dark bathtub, shivering alone. 

Years of holding onto a paper facade left me constantly throwing sludge at people. People who loved me. People who wanted to help. Bye, bitch. *Opens mouth and vomits terrible, hurtful, weighted words.* I began to wonder what I had to offer anyone who wanted to try to peek behind. Not much. It’s really dirty back here. Don’t worry about it. Let’s work on you. I’ll help you. Anyway I can. I began to unfold my limbs. I began to appreciate myself. I began to let the black goo drain. I let go of relationships. I tell myself I don’t need a boyfriend. I can get what I need from cherry picking things I like about the people I know around me and ignore the parts that I disagree with. They put up with me, after all. I start to workout. I start to feel better about myself. I ride my bike to work. It’s scary. I feel vulnerable. I meet new people. I feel exposed. I run into people from my past. I feel weird about it. A shadow tickling my toes. I feel like I need to prove myself. But I don’t. No. I’m good. I’ll just keep going. Maybe I’m ready to just not accept anything but the best. I deserve to know what it feels like to truly be loved. I deserve to allow myself to be truly loved. I find him. The man I need. Do I deserve him? Does he deserve me? I don’t know. I can’t tell. But I feel it. I can’t un-feel it. I seem like someone I’m not. I don’t know why I did that. I let people influence me. I go along with them. I try to protect them. I try to adjust so I don’t offend them. They ask me to speak my mind. *I let words flow out like a sickness.* They love it. I’m hilarious! I’m not mean. It sounded mean. I don’t know if I’m mean or not. I realize that I don’t need some people. I let go of relationships. I cry. I don’t know if I made the right choice or not. I see my best friend. She assures me it was a good idea. I trust her. I can always count on her. She doesn’t trust anyone else I hang out with. She tells me they are superficial. Maybe. I don’t know. I can’t tell. I just see them. They need help. They need fixed. I brought my tools. They are attached to my hand. I want to help. Even if it hurts me. She understands. She smiles. I feel reassured. I know I am a good person. The man I think I deserve calls. He tells me that his friends told him that I was bad news. We talk. That isn’t me. It never was. I was just fitting in with the people around me. You talked with the real me. The one that didn’t hide. I don’t know what it is about him but I cannot hide myself. He sees the stains on my bathtub. I see the stains on his. We sit in them. We hold hands in them. Its not a broken bond. 

His roommates are weird. It’s fine. I’m weird, too. I don’t know how to act around them. They still see my friends. I barely see them now. I feel naked. I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m at a party. I get drunk. I talk to his weird roommate. He is sad. He’s suffering. He doesn’t know who he is either. I assure him. I tell him it will all be okay. I tell him he is good and kind and it will all work out. Let’s just go home. I’m driving. It’s not a good idea. It’s snowing. I take people home. I pull over and cry. I don’t know why I’m crying. It all just spills out. I let it take over me. It’s beautiful. The big white flakes falling from the sky around me. My bright yellow Beetle in the snow. Stopped on the side of the road. With me crying inside. Like a baby. Drowning in a tub of darkness. He tells me it’s okay. I tell him that it can’t be okay. He reminds me of a man who took advantage of me in my past. A lot of men do. Why? Do I make a connection and search for him in them? Do I try to show myself that I don’t deserve anything better? Do they even remind me of him? I don’t know what to think. 

I wake up the next morning and stare out the window. I cry more. He can’t help me. He tries. He squeezes my hand in the bathtub. I helped him. He can help me. I wipe away the tears. I just need to talk to someone. I do, eventually. Years later. I let the darkness come over me and I eat my feelings then I wake up one day and say, “enough is enough.” I wipe my tears and I drain the tub. I wait for it to leave. I try to rinse myself off and get out of the tub. “Bye, bitch.” I ignore it. 

I start habitually doing yoga. It feels good. I feel the spinal release. I get cold symptoms. I let it go. I let go of what doesn’t serve me. I allow myself to feel love. I give it. I find people with common interests. I give all I have to them. Years go by and I start to be influenced. I stop practicing yoga. I stop being mindful. I let the bathtub fill up behind me. I walk backwards until I bump into it. I step inside. I drink it up. 

I wake up and wonder why I keep allowing it to take me. Every time. Why can’t I just fight it off? Why can’t I just resist it? Why? Do I hate myself that much? Do I honestly feel like I don’t deserve to be happy? I don’t know. I really don’t. I don’t know if I every will figure it out. I had plenty of ‘aha’ moments. I’ve felt that spinal release. More than I can count. I’ve grown. I’ve accepted my sadness and understood I will someday walk away from it but somehow it still sticks to me. Follows me around. Where does it go when I drain the tub? When I decide to take care of myself. Of my feelings. Where does the darkness go? Does it just grow when I’m sad? Like an old friend, I let it take me. I let it dupe me. Sure, I say, I’ll come along. You helped me deal with things in the past. I wonder what I’ll learn this time. 

“It takes a second to wreck it.” I don’t know where the end of the tunnel is. I don’t know. That is part of what keeps me coming back. To let the darkness cloud out the light. The flames that I enjoy. I don’t have a map. I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t understand it. I know what not to do. I know where my mind goes. It’s been in the darkest places. It’s been in the light. It’s been bad. And good. I know what the core is. I do know who I am. I know what I want. I just need to focus and get there. I will figure it out on the way. I will let those small flames come out and guide me. I won’t listen when someone tells me something. They aren’t telling me to over analyze anything. If they are, then they are fucking crazy and should stop being a fucking bitch. 

I should stop being crazy to myself. I should stop being a fucking bitch to myself. I need to learn from this. I need to grow. I am learning. I did grow. I’m still going. I’m not getting in that fucking bathtub again. I won’t let any man tell me I am not worth it. I won’t let anyone tell me. I won’t allow myself to think it. It’s just me in here. I’m not going to let anyone else in. Unless they having something nice to say. I will accept it. I will collect it. I will think on it. I will remember it. My husband held my hand. The whole way. He never lets go. Even when he’s mad. Even when he’s sad. When his tub is overflowing. My hand is still right there, at the edge of his bathtub. I feel him and I wait for him. I try to tug him out and he tugs back. But I never let go. He never lets go. He tells me what I want to hear. What I need to hear. He means it. I accept it. I allow it. I help him. He helps me. I fall into him and he falls into me. “It takes time to build.” I’m going to be okay. I’m not today. But I will be okay. It’s just an election. It’s just what it is. We will survive. We will get by. I will put this impending doom feeling behind me. I won’t allow anyone to make me scared. I won’t allow any woman to tell me who I am. I won’t allow any man to tell me who I am. I know who I am. I’m a damn good mom. I can handle my son. He’s an angel. He determined. And stubborn. And he questions authority. Just like me. He’s beautiful. He's wonderful. I don’t want him to lose his spark. I want him to always question me. I want him to always trust himself over anyone else. I want him to succeed. I want him to not be tainted like I was. I want him to be strong. I want him to face himself and love his reflection. I want my daughter to be proud of me. I want her to look up to me. To appreciate herself. To love herself. Just like I loved my mom. I want my daughter to look me in the eyes and tell me I am beautiful. Just like I did to my mom. I told myself I would never deny it. If someone tells me I am great then I say thank you. I won’t deny it like my mother. She is beautiful. She is perfect. I love her so dearly. I want a relationship like I have with my mother for my daughter and I. I want her to look up at me and love me with all her heart forever. To want it to never end. I want that love for myself. I want to love myself. All of me. I did. I did love myself. Briefly. A month or so ago. I really did. I looked in the mirror and I saw my pooch-y mom belly and I turned sideways and said, “It is what it is.” I put my shirt down. I walked out the door into the world. Hello, world, I like me. It’s okay! Some days I let the sadness tell me that I’m not a great person for a second. I stopped loving myself for a second. But then I remembered my voice and I said, “NOPE. Not today.” I loved myself. I let myself feel it. I pushed myself. Just a little. Not a lot. Not enough. I find myself today just wondering where I’m going with this. What am I even writing today? I just wanted to reflect on myself. I just wanted to see it on paper. To read these words to myself. That it’s okay that I allow myself to be taken into the darkness sometimes but that it’s not okay to let it become me. I’m no longer behind a facade. It was really scary at first. I was really pregnant. I let myself be who I really am. But I was angry. I was mad that I wasn't working on me for the last few years. That I was just waiting for an explosion to tear down my facade. I was egging it on. I was allowing things to vomit out of my mouth in the worst way. Just let it happen. It’ll be fine. They won’t leave me. They get me. But they left. Not my husband. Not my mom. Not my sisters. Or my best friend. They just let me blast it to bits. They encouraged it. They said, “Fuck it. Fuck them. Fuck your facade.” I agreed. I didn’t know why. But I just did. It was like when I met my husband. The spinal fluid was released. Something clicked. I just allowed room for it and all of the sudden I was letting go of weights that suddenly filled with helium and floated into the sky like big red balloons. I knew they could go and they went. I tried to jump up to grab them but- why? What was I thinking? Sometimes I miss it. I miss the weight on my shoulders. I miss the misinterpretations. It’s like an sweatshirt that smells and doesn’t fit right but for some reason it’s so soft and you just want to keep wearing it. It’s got holes you keep fixing but it insists on making new holes. You even make a few on purpose, because, just fuck it. Fuck this sweater. But then oh, shit. I did that. Well. It’s here. I’ll wear it. I’ll wash it. I’ll try to fix it. But one day you try to put it on and it just looks like someone else’s sweatshirt. It’s not yours. It smells weird. It can’t be yours. No. This is not your fucking sweatshirt. Let it fucking go. In the trash it goes. Then you regret it. But you shouldn’t. It’s already gone. You let it go. But why does it feel so chilly? WELL I don’t fucking know. I’ll find a new one. I’ll get a better one. But I don’t want a better one. I want the one I always wore. The one with the holes. With the smell that isn’t mine. The one that I kept repairing. I liked the project. I liked that it fit horribly. What the fuck? No. I don’t like it. I made the right choice. There’s all these really great sweaters that I’ve been avoiding and throwing back on the rack even though they look really cute on me and I could probably live in them. But I’m not ready. For that hypothetical sweater. For the one that will be soft and warm and comforting. I’m not ready because I need to make sure that I am whole again first. And to do that, I had to get rid of that shitty, itchy sweater. The one that keeps echoing that I can’t handle my kids. That sweater is a fucking bitch. I don’t need that shit. Not one bit. It takes a second to wreck it. But, it takes time to build.