I've been happy for the past two weeks, so I tell my therapist and we celebrate: "Hooray for the moment of peace and relative clarity that we have found!"
The other day, I spent some unpleasant time in the bathroom with my face pressed against the cool tiles of the floor which are just so dirty and gross because I live with three other girls and we live in a shitty house that we won't clean. I later crawled to my bed and, holding a pillow to my stomach, I tried talking to my roommate.
"Isn't it dispiriting to know that you will get food poisoning again in the future? Most likely."
"Dis-whatening?" She's eating a bowl of cucumbers and vinegar. She's a model by the way.
"Like...who needs that?"
"I've never thought about it," she shrugs. With her half-shaven head. Perfect lips... damn her and her thigh gap.
I tell this to my therapist, and she asks me what's really on my mind.
"Nothing, really. It's weird and fantastic and suspicious that things aren't perfect and I can feel so good anyway. But it can't last." It can't last.
"No, it can't," she agrees.
"The sun is out," she mentions, perhaps returning to a possible diagnosis of seasonal depression. Not to discredit the seasonally depressed, but imagine if that were my problem! Please, let me have seasonal depression--I'll move to Phoenix or something.
"Yeah, that can't last either. It's January."
"...how does that make you feel?"
It's the next day, and I still feel really good, but of course the sky is filling with the promise of a very grey storm, as we both knew.
It won't last.
Monday, January 20
It felt like somewhere else
for a moment,
glancing out the front door to see the
reminded me of neon lights and advertisements
flashing across a
massive wall of billboards—
New York City was good to me:
with the attractive and superior students
on campus at Columbia…
with the hipsters in Brooklyn,
hustling along and
as if they were
across the window of a
as if none of these people were
in love with their own neighborhood
like I was.
And I was in love.
Even with the cool kids walking in front of me
puffing from their cigarettes
and blowing into my face,
coating my clothes and hair with
a layer of stink,
I was still in love.
The next moment,
I turned the corner and was blinded by
My eyes already exhausted
from the second-hand smoke,
it was too much for them to take in all the
the neon lights and advertisements
flashing across a
massive wall of billboards,
telling me what I need
and what I want.
And how could they know—?
I recall all of this,
sitting outside the restaurant
on the curb,
the cold throbbing in my fingers
and my ears,
relieved to find that the
police sirens were fading away.
I guess the lights hurt my eyes.
But maybe Manhattan’s billboards
have a better idea of what I need
and what I want
than I do myself.