Personas, Lugares, Cosas

It’s November 17th at 2:55 pm. I’m sitting at the kitchen table, pondering this would you rather question that my friend asked the other day. I’m also polishing up this post, searching for grammatical errors, trying to figure out what to share and what to leave out. Writing is hard, you guys. I got a little caught up in it this month, wanted so badly to perfectly convey everything that has happened since mid-September, and wrap it up in a pretty bow for you guys. I was pretty close to abandoning ship, just throwing the towel in. “If I can’t do it perfectly, why even try?” Luckily, I remembered the whole goal of this thing is to just aim for good enough.

Here’s my good-enough recap of the last two months. I tried a couple of new things with this one. Fewer time stamps, more present tense, and keeping it a bit rougher around the edges. Thanks for reading, and buckle up.

PERSONAS, LUGARES, COSAS

It’s mid-September. I have a new apartment. It needs plants, art, and a more cozy feel. I drink a couple of cups of coffee at a cafe around the corner, and get a little high on life. Leaving the cafe, I spot this construction dumpster full of old bricks, salmon pink and off white. They are rustic and asymmetrical, and I love them. I grab as many as I can carry and bring them back to the apartment. They have perfect circular holes in them. The bricks make for an excellent soap dish, toothbrush holder, plant holder, and bookends. I go back and fill up a bag of them. A man parked in his car stares at me. I pretend not to see. Jose, the concierge, gives me a funny look and tells me to wash them in the sink. He grabs the elevator door for me, teaches me how to say heavy bricks in Spanish. ladrillos pesados.

In the mornings, I sit at the table next to the window and watch my neighbors across the street. I watch two boys and their dad check for new growth in their plant pot. There’s an older lady who wears a pink bathrobe who waters her plants every morning. I watch her as she investigates her aloe plant. Her mouth is slightly ajar.

I have to leave the country and re-enter on my visa, silly new visa rule. My visa was valid starting September 1st, but having arrived August 25th, I came in as a tourist. In order to leave and re-enter, I have booked a 50 euro round-trip flight to Bristol, England. My flight leaves at 6:30 am tomorrow. The World Wide Web suggests getting there 3 hours early. I pack my bag and try to sleep.

I don’t sleep. I catch the last metro of the night around 1:45 am. There’s a metro stop about an hour from the airport. It’s around 3 am. The buses that run from the airport to the metro stop have not started their routes yet. I walk through a quiet suburb to the airport. I’m not sure you are supposed to do that. My phone wouldn’t show me the walking route until I configured it to pretend I was on a bus. I see the taxis lined up. The drivers get out of their cars and chat until the flights land. I close my eyes for a few, find my gate, and I’m off on the 6:30 flight to Bristol, England. Sleep-deprived and hungry when I arrive, I take a double-decker bus to the center of Bristol, camp out at Waterfront cafe until I can check into my hostel. It’s rainy. I sip a cappuccino and a flapjack oat bar, chat with a woman named Jackie. She’s around 40 years old, heavy set, with pink highlights in her hair. She’s lived in Bristol her whole life, and is waiting at the cafe for her daughter. She offers to buy me a coffee. I am grateful for Jackie. I am grateful for small talk. I am grateful to know the language. I write for a few hours. Jackie’s daughter Emma shows up. She is sweet like her mom.

I sit outside a pub near the hostel. I had tried to check in, but you can’t check in until 3 pm. I put headphones on and lay my head down. I’m so tired. A man comes up to me. Lifting my head half heartedly, He asks where I’m from. “America. New York.” I yawn. He keeps talking. He’s from West Africa, but has been here for four years. He’s looking to smoke weed or sell weed, I’m not sure. He mumbles something. I nod, tell him I’m tired. He apologizes for rambling, says he can’t stop talking when he meets someone with pretty eyes. I smile, nod, and pull out my laptop. He can’t take a hint. “What brings you to Bristol?” I answer and excuse myself. “I’m going for a walk.” “Because of me?” “No…I just need a walk.” I walk in the rain, and keep turning back to see if he’s following me.

I check into the hostel, meet Josh, the young guy at the front desk. I tell him I know two guys from the UK now, and they are both named Josh. He doesn’t care. He says I sound American. I tell him I’m from New York. “How far is that from the Grand Canyon?” “Far,” He gives me sheets and a pillow case, and leads me to my room. It has a circus theme. There are intricate paintings on the walls, a fox playing the trumpet, and a clown on a unicycle. I shower, no soap, towels cost a pound, I dry off on my clothes, cake myself in deodorant, try to take a nap, but the coffee was too strong.

After a quick walk around town, I settle into a restaurant around the corner, do some more writing, and eat a veggie burger that the lad behind the counter recommended. He made me a chai and said cheers. He’s cute. The cafe speakers are playing Mazzy Star and the Velvet Underground. I ask the cute guy who’s playing music. He is. “I dig it.” “Do you have any suggestions?” “Maybe some more Velvet Underground.” He plays “Perfect Day.” I recall a daydream I had about meeting a guy in the banana aisle of a grocery store and talking about the song “Perfect Day.” It’s a sign. A band comes in, sets up for a show, and I watch a woman with a buzz cut chat with another woman with dreads and a scarf. I tear out a page from my notebook, draw an ink doodle, and leave my number “for the guy that made my chai.”

Back in the room, my hostel mate Jen is setting her bowl of ramen by the window to cool it off. We chat. She got her master’s degree in Birmingham, then taught English in Thailand for two years. She asks why I’m here. I’m so tired, but I explain that I entered Spain before my Visa date and had to legally re-enter the country on my Visa. She says she wants to go to the shops if I want to come. I don’t. It’s 8 pm. I tell her I’m going to bed. She sits in the dark on her phone. I play box fan noises through my headphones and try not to think of the stranger in the chair five feet from me, eating ramen. Doesn’t work. Up again, I put on clothes. She looks at me, “Can’t sleep?” “No. Going for a walk. See you later.” “Oh, okay.” Before I close the door, she asks, “Are you going to the shops?” “No. No shops.” I wander rainy Bristol until I’m tired enough to try to sleep again.

Up at 7, I quietly pack up and notice the other bodies in their beds. They must have come in late. I brush my teeth without toothpaste, and put on the clothes I wore yesterday. After a nice breakfast and a couple of hours of reading at a cozy alley cafe, I head back to the Waterfront Cafe for lunch, and I catch another double-decker bus back to the airport. On the plane, I listen to the flight attendant talk to a couple of Spanish guys in front of me. They ask, “So when you land in Madrid, do you get some food, have a couple of drinks?” “Nope, we have 25 minutes to get everyone off, clean the plane, and board the next group.” Huh. Didn’t know that. I land back in Madrid and am home by 1 am.

The next week, I am constipated, I eat handfuls of popcorn and prunes, and drink coffee after coffee. After 6 days of nothing, I walk to the pharmacist’s, use Google Translate to tell him I have constipation. He asks how many days. I say 6. He says “Necesita un enema.” Fuck. I can understand that in Spanish.

The enema works, maybe too well. The next day, with my heels on the toilet seat again, I think back to the slide at the daycare center I used to go to when I was five or so. The kids used to roll their socks up so that their heels were out and they could grip the slide well enough to climb up. I remember being five, rolling my socks up to try and fit in, and then sitting alone in a corner and watching the other kids from afar. Today, I am 22. I am crying on the toilet. Maybe we don’t change as much as we think we do.

One morning, I wake up to a dream of a guy I miss from home. I think of his smirk. I think of the little dance he did when he saw me at school. I picture his goofy shoes. I want to text him. I don’t text him.

I go to a running club with a couple of friends. We warm up in the park and then join the slowest group. I make it about a mile and a half before slowing to a hobble and then excusing myself. Hot-faced and sweaty, I walk to the metro and try not to throw up.

I read a book on gratitude. It suggests sending love into the parts of ourselves that cause us grievance. I send love to my belly, apologize to it for being so cruel. I’m sitting there at the kitchen table, belly out, saying shit like “I’m so sorry for being such a dickhead to you. Thank you for keeping me warm. Thank you for storing fat when I overeat, for keeping it for later in case I am stranded and starving. Thank you. Thank you. I’m sorry for sucking you in, making you tense. Thank you for holding onto my pain when I’m not sure how to process it in my mind. Thanks for the aches. Thanks for the shits. I will try to be nicer to you from here on out.”

Piper, Katherine, and I get ready for a night out. I listen to my “On My Way!” playlist and put on eyeliner. Piper lets me borrow her black mini skirt. They teach me how to sit without flashing anyone. “I can’t walk up stairs in this.” “No, you totally can. It’s fine.” We hang out on a friend’s couch. At 1:30, we walk to the club. Jordan and I head home around 3. My ears are ringing.

I wake up early the next day, happy not to drink, make a matcha, and email my British pen pal Josh. Met him at a yoga retreat in Ireland. We exchange emails every few months. Life is weird.

One lonely night, I try to lean into the lonely feeling instead of running from it. That is pretty uncomfortable, so I run from it. I download Hinge, spend too much time making my profile. Afterwards, I sit on the terrace, listen to Mac Miller, and try to write myself a love letter.

I meditate, relax my muscles. They start spazzing really hard. I roll with it. Yeah, let them chakras open, baby! It feels pretty cathartic, these waves of energy. It continues like that for like 20 minutes. Freaky. I’m doing this experiment from a book where I pretend I have a year to live. My death date is August 1, 2026. I told Katherine this, but she got super superstitious about it. “No! Don’t say that!” But anyways, yeah, August 26th. It’s the end of September now, so I’m on my second month. According to the book, I’m supposed to be meditating and practicing “soft belly.” I soften my belly. It’s very hard right now. I start thanking it again, but then I remember that I’m supposed to be meditating, so I return my attention to my breath.

I have a dream that my dad and I are walking down the street. We pass a man walking his dog. My dad turns to me and asks, “Is it just me, or does that dog look like Ethan Hawke?” I laugh. “I was just thinking that!” I wake up and jot the dream down in my phone.

I go to Toledo, the old capital of Madrid. It takes about an hour on the bus. I wander around a quiet residential area, taking a few pictures of the old buildings. It’s nice. A black cat passes me on the street. I stop for breakfast, order an orange juice, coffee, and a croissant. 3 euros. Afterwards, I lay on a bench in the sun, meditate, and soften my belly. My friend Kyrra meets me. We wander a bit and chat about whatever we feel like chatting about.

It’s October 1st, the first day of work. I work in a school in the southwest of Madrid, about a 15-minute train ride from my neighborhood. I have prepared an introductory PowerPoint. The kids don’t seem to care about the pictures of my plants or my family, but they like the pictures of my dog. I explain to them that I don’t know Spanish, that I’m here so they can practice their English. The first graders look at me wide-eyed. They haven’t got a clue what I’m saying. The fourth graders and I chat. They ask me about my favorite movies, colors. Do I have a boyfriend? Do I like Rinaldi or Messi more? “Uhhhh. Messi?” Some cheer. Some boo. I go home, watch a Hank Green video about octopuses, and then Piper Katherine, and I watch “The Proposal” with Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds. We geek out when Ryan Reynolds takes off his shirt.

Remembering that it’s October, I flip to the back of my “Year to Live” book to see what I’m supposed to be doing in my third month to live. Alright, I’m supposed to be becoming more alive every day, continuing soft belly practice, more meditation, approaching illness as an opportunity to stay present, thinking about how we may fear our hidden pain more than death. I’m not so sure about that one. The book suggests taking a day in which you walk around town and pretend you are invisible, that you are dead, and the world is carrying on without you. Then the next day, you are fully visible, fully alive. I ought to try that.

For my morning classes, I alternate between 1st-4th graders, and then in the afternoons, I hang out with 3 and 4-year-olds. I mostly just hang out, help the teacher pass out papers, and speak English. With the younger kids, it’s just crowd control. “Hey, you, get down from that table.” “Don’t you dare rub that booger on me.” We sing a song about family members and wiggle our fingers. There’s daddy thumb, brother pointer finger, and sister middle finger. We spend the last 20 minutes putting on jackets and backpacks. I have off for two hours in the middle of the day. Most days, I leave school at 4. I’m off Mondays, and I work till 12:30 on Fridays. I have a lot of time to think. I start thinking more. Thinking and thinking and thinking. My head hurts.

I chat with the concierge Jose in shitty Spanish. He sits in the lobby during the week. I ask if he knows a good cafe to do some work. He suggests Cafe Teatro right around the corner. I thank him. Another day, he tells me not to walk alone at night in Lavapies because the black people will steal my things. Another day, he tells me his son knows a good deal of English and can sing along to songs on the radio. I always try to tell him where I’m off to. I use basic Spanish. I tell him I’m going to the store to buy fish and eggs, and other things. I’m going to the park to meet my friends. I’m going to the gym. He nods with encouragement. I tell him I need practice. He agrees. He sees my backpack and asks me what I’m working on. I tell him I want to be a writer. He asks me to include him in the book I will write one day. I say that I will.

I introduce myself to Jesus, the owner at Cafe Teatro, and announce to him that I’m going to be a regular. He asks where I’m from. I tell him I’m 22 years old. He gives me a funny look. My Spanish is worse than I thought.

One of the teachers at school asks me to write the word “Science” on the board. I spell it wrong. Another kid asks me if a spider is a carnivore or an omnivore. I look at the teacher. She shrugs. We walk to the corner and look it up on her phone.

I meet up with this Italian guy from Hinge, Eugenio. We meet in the Gran Via, the Times Square of Madrid. At first, I can’t find him. He says he’s by the big gorilla. I find the gorilla, but I don’t find Eugenio. Turns out there are multiple gorillas. We get pincho tortillas. He is here studying medicine. He buys. I show him the contents of my purse: my wallet, my journal, and a book about OCD. He asks about the OCD, says he studied it a bit in a psych class. I answer, but don’t really dive too much into the details. We walk around a park, sit on a park bench. He tells me that I need some Spanish friends, and adds me to this huge group chat of people from Europe who live in Madrid. At one point, he asks me, “If you don’t mind me asking, what are the symptoms of your city?” I consider it a strange translation; maybe it’s an Italian thing, but I start talking about Rochester and all of its little pockets of good stuff. He looks at me funny and corrects me, “What are the symptoms of your OCD?” Ohhhh. I tell him the light and easy breezy stuff like hypochondria. I leave out the heavy stuff. I ask what his favorite Italian dish is. He says if I accept his offer to cook for me, he will show me some “real Italian food.” We part ways at the metro. He leans in for an Italian goodbye. I kiss both of his cheeks. He blushes and says, “No, no. You just tap your cheeks and make the kiss sound…like this.” Oops.

Piper wants to make her first omelette. We tag team it and try to guess how much heat to use. We burn it a little, but she says it tastes good. Piper, Katherine, and I watch “While You Were Sleeping”, a Christmas rom-com. I don’t plan on going home for the holiday, but I’m sure going to miss the snow.

I walk to the library around the corner and pull out my computer to make a budget. Considering my limited savings and piss pot monthly stipend, I decide not to go on crazy trips around Europe, and just live it up in Spain, go to cafes, see other cities, be frugal but not too frugal.

I wake up to a dream in which I watched someone put a squirrel in a blender. I go back to bed to cancel that dream out. Before school, I meditate on a bench. My boss sees me. The kids are learning British English. They say “have you got?” instead of “do you have?” They say rubber instead of eraser. Cookies are biscuits. A compass is a compass rose. I have to whisper to the teacher to ask what a lorry is. It’s a semi truck. Another assistant and I read a script in English to the class. We do British accents. At recess, the other assistants and I hang out with the kids on the playground. I like the fourth graders best. They are silly. This one girl, Paula, likes to lie. She tells me she’s from upstate New York. She does karate after school. I tell her to show me some moves. She grabs my shoulders and lifts my foot. She’s pretty good. This other girl, Maria, has invited me to join her girl gang. She tells me we aren’t talking to Ana because Ana is annoying. I tell her to give Ana a chance. She shakes her head. I say okay, and she leads me to a different part of the playground, away from Ana.

During my two-hour break, I eat lunch on a park bench. One day, this older couple comes up to me, asks to sit. I stand up to let them have the bench, but they gesture for me to sit back down. I explain that my Spanish is horrible. They ask where I’m from, what I’m eating. I refer to my food as lunch, but they think that’s silly because it’s only 12:30 and they eat at 2 or 3. The woman calls me beautiful. She is 90 years old. She tells me they walk here every day. When I leave, she tells me to come back, and says she was delighted to meet me. I write their names in my phone, Masimo and Vicenta. I see them a couple of days later. Their daughter calls. Vicenta answers, telling her she is sitting with an American. She hands her phone to me. Her daughter says hello and asks me questions about my job. Vicenta and her daughter are funny.

Some days during lunch, I go to the library near my school. One day, I get a Spanish library card. The librarian asks where I’m from. I tell him upstate New York. He asks, “Go Bills?” I say Go Bills! I browse the English section, find a book called “The Midnight Library.” It’s about a young woman in a pit of depression who tries to overdose, and ends up in this in-between space in which she can see other ways in which her life plays out. I check it out. One day, I had to call out sick because of my stomach, and I read the book on the couch under a blanket. I am not feeling so good these days, but the book helps.

I have to go to a doctor to get a justification for missing school. There’s a clinic by the river with open hours and an English-speaking doctor. I take a bus there and hand the secretary my health insurance card. He tells me to sit and wait until my number is called. I read my book. The doctor calls me in. I tell her about my IBS. She writes me a note, tells me to take it easy.

I decide to walk home along the river. The book is nearing the end, and the woman has realized that her life is pretty damn special. The sun is setting. I feel a little high. I think about my year to live and all of the things I would want to do. I try to call my brother to tell him I love him. He doesn’t answer. I call my dad, start rambling about my mental health, all of the thinking that I’ve been doing. I tell him about this quote from Fleabag that I like. The main character, Fleabag, is crying over her dead mom. She tells her friend Boo, “I don’t know what to do with it.” Boo asks, “With what? “Fleabag says, “ With all the love I have for her… I don’t know where to put it now.” I tell my dad that I’m having a Fleabag sort of night. Then I start sobbing pretty hard. I lay on a bench and let it out. My dad stays on the line.

After the call, I feel a little crazy, a little dissociated, a little loosey goosey. My face is warm. My cheeks are red. I watch the sunset and smile. I pass a church. There’s a service starting. I follow a man in. The lights are dim. The priest says a few words. I try to translate the words behind his head. I think it says Jesus Christ, yesterday, today, and forever. After the priest wraps up, we kneel, and then it’s silent again. Then some music and the people around me start to sing. They sing with heart. I don’t understand a word. I let a tear fall. They fall silent again. I grow antsy and leave.

Jose teaches me how to say “What’s new, old man?” in Spanish. I show him my new book titled “How to Stubbornly Refuse to Make Yourself Miserable About Anything- Yes, Anything.” He is impressed. He shows me his Kindle and all of the books he has downloaded. There’s one on psychology, another on financial wealth, and another about seduction.

I am sitting at Cafe Teatro, holding up my end of the “I’m going to be a regular” comment. Jesus remembers my name. I eat a slice of carrot cake. There’s a woman next to me watching a youth basketball game on her phone. She is sipping a tea. There is a little white dog in her lap, the crusty kind. Its mouth smells like poop. She doesn’t seem to notice.

Katherine, Jacob, and I sit on a blanket in Retiro Park. We talk about rejection therapy, trying things outside of our comfort zones, shooting for 9 no’s and one yes. I tell them about the cute guy in Bristol. He never texted. I don’t mind. We stare at a couple who have stopped in the middle of the path to french. We argue about whether they will split up or stay together afterwards. Will they go left or right? They stop kissing, stay together, and walk to the right.

I walk around the river path near my house and wander through this open space cultural center that used to be a slaughterhouse. The leaves are changing. I feel my brain getting dark in a way that it hasn’t in a while. It freaks me out.

Some friends and I go to Toledo. Jacob gets a strange fruit from the supermarket. He jams his fingers in it to open it. A woman comes over, takes it from him, and shows him how it’s done. We all try a piece. Jordan says his tongue feels itchy. I feel mine itch a little, too. “Jacob, what the hell is this?” “I don’t know. I think it’s like a cuchyraya or something. “A coochie raya? That can’t be right.” We laugh about coochie raya. The darkness subsides a little bit.

Before school one day, I stop at a little cafe/ cafeteria near my school called Bar Paris. I order an americano and try to journal about how I’m feeling.

On the metro, I have the urge to tell a little boy that he has fat girl arms. And then I start thinking about telling him he has fat girl arms in perfect Spanish and then following that up with “I don’t speak any Spanish.” And then I start thinking about if someone came up to me in English and told me, “You have little boy legs. I don’t speak English,” and then I laugh to myself, and then I reach my stop and get off and go home.

I Facetime with my mom. She is six hours behind me. She cooks broccoli and cheddar soup. I want broccoli and cheddar soup. We end the call. I am suffocatingly lonely. I think about my past reactions to this feeling. I would drive to Wegmans and wander the aisles just to have something to look at. I would eat ice cream and popcorn, and canned peaches until my stomach hurt. I would text everyone I know, “Hey, what are you up to?” I would keep my phone close by in case they respond. There are no Wegmans in Spain. I look at the movie showtimes for the theater down the road. I close the tab, decide to try something new. I put on my noise-cancelling headphones, cue up a 45-minute guided meditation. My body is antsy. I turn the lights off and sink into the feeling. Fourth month of my year to live “Approach illness as an opportunity to stay present” Let’s lean into this motherfucker. I lean into it. I feel strange. I want to run from this. I don’t. I sit with it. For forty-five minutes, I sit with it. Then I turn the light on and sit with it some more.

I am a regular at Bar Paris cafe. They know my order: An americano with toast and tomato spread. Sometimes a croissant with butter and jam. Today, I sit in the corner and watch the workers. There is a tall man who is quiet and kind. He is pouring a coffee. The other man is short and balding and humming to himself. I have come to recognize the regulars. They are here now. One man puts jelly and butter on his croissant and watches something on his phone. There’s a couple that sits outside on the enclosed patio. I look up at them when I read something profound and need a moment to think it through. I do wonder what they think of the girl at the corner table, staring at them through the plastic.

I alternate between good and bad days. On the bad days, I hide away in my room, call my parents, cry, isolate, and try to decide if I’m worthy or not. On the good days, I go for walks, spend time with friends, buy groceries, make my bed, and remember that I am loved. On the bad days, I sit on the shower floor and think about going home. I search for rock bottom and get annoyed when I can’t find it. On the good days, I ask for help, I set up therapy appointments, ask my roommates for a hug, and realize that there’s no such thing as a good or bad day. They are just days.

I search for OCD support groups in the area. When I don’t find one, I send out a message to the people in my program to see if anyone would want to start one. I am surprised when four people reach out to me with interest. I create a group chat and we plan a time to meet.

On Halloween, I want so badly to feel good. I Google and ruminate and tear up my past in search of concrete answers about who I am, what I value. I go down rabbit holes. My efforts create more confusion, more blurriness. I don’t know who I am. I start to dissociate. I’m scared. I sent my dad a strange text. I’m losing it. Nothing is real. I don’t know who I am. But it’s Halloween! Nobody knows who they are on Halloween. I am a pirate! I put on a skirt and fishnets, and a cute ass shirt. I want to party! I want to dance! I want to get absolutely trashed! Dean comes over. He is Frankenstein. Piper does his makeup. She’s a character from Beetlejuice. Katherine is Kesha. We take photos on the terrace. Chin up. Smile. All is fine. I am real. Katherine puts sparkles on her cheeks. I put some on my collar bones. They put on their shoes. I sit on the bedroom floor and cry. I am scum. I remember my makeup. I stop crying. We go to our friend’s Halloween party. I am charming. I am pretty. I make small talk. Two girls complement my nose. My friends are drunk and touchy. They like me. They like me. I am scum. I deserve love. I am scum. I am wonderful. I am scum. I run into Jacob. I tell him I am worried I am scum. He tells me he is scum, too. I feel a little lighter. We wander the streets until 4 in the morning. I am scared to walk home alone, so I watch self-help videos and John Green on my friend’s couch until the metro starts again at 6 am. My fishnets are uncomfortable, and I am very cold.

It’s November 1st. I sleep until noon. I’m up! I’m scum! I’m wonderful! I’m running on five hours of sleep, and I’m going to a Murder Mystery Party, god damnit. I’m Jane Smith, the accountant from America who has memories of murdering a man. Jacob created this thing. I said I would go, so I’m going. The flier calls for funeral attire. I put on a black dress and green boots and walk to the park.

A lot of people show up. We chat, we discuss who did it. There are detectives and characters. We wear name tags and eat oranges. It’s dorky and awkward and weird and wonderful. I smile and laugh and put on a whole show when I’m accused. I feel like a person.

I wake up, get a coffee, read my book on radical acceptance, and have a dance party in the living room. I record myself and say, “Look, Annie! You were in the freaking pits a couple of days ago, and now you are dancing around the room. Things get better.”

I am back in the pits. I have tunnel vision. I am scum. I will never be happy again. I call home. My dad says, “If you want to come home for Christmas, we can pay for your flight.” That’s probably for the best. I book a flight home. I inhale. I exhale.

A couple of friends from home are in town for a Radiohead concert. They want to see me. I am scum. I am unworthy. I think of a future Annie dancing in the living room, and I force myself to go out for her.

My friends and I go to a bar. It’s too loud. My friend Eric and I leave. I tell him I’m struggling. We decide to watch a movie. I pick a film about a mental hospital. “You sure this is what you want to watch right now?” He asks. “Yes.” We watch for five minutes and then I switch it to Pixar’s “Soul”. I feel things. We talk about some real stuff. I am sleepy. Eric hugs me in the hallway. I tell him that I will be okay.

I sit with my other friend, Nico, in the park. His flight home is today. He has a couple of hours to kill. He is a firefighter in Colorado. We talk about firefighting. We talk about movies. We talk about loneliness. I ask if they have autumn there. He says, “There’s really only one species of tree that changes colors there, but it’s one hell of a tree to watch change.” He walks me to the metro. I hug him and tell him not to be a stranger.

My friend Aidan and I go to Redbar, a 24-hour diner. We split Nutella pancakes. I drink chamomile tea. He drinks Nesquick. He edits a vlog. I create the outline for the book I’ve been meaning to write for years.I am scum. I am wonderful. I am inspired.

The next night, I go back to Redbar, on my own this time, and decide to give this blog another shot. No pressure, no obsessive polishing. No need to include all the details. I order a decaf coffee, write until 11:30, and then catch the metro home. I don’t sleep well.

I call my dad, tell him I’m not sure I’m cut out for this. “It’s really bad, Dad. It’s really bad.” We say goodbye. It gets dark. I tread water, make myself dizzy trying to stay afloat. I turn the lights off, put my headphones on, and sink into the feelings, noting them as they pass. I am scared to sit still. I worry that I am unworthy. I am hopeful that things will get better. I am proud of myself for lying here and doing this. Something clicks. I go to the gym and get on the stair climber. I play “Man or Muppet” through my headphones, lip sync the lyrics, and let myself cry a little. I go home and wonder if I, Annie Barber, am more man or muppet these days.

So yeah…maybe it’s not a pretty Instagram post in front of the royal palace. Maybe it’s not bread and cheese and wine in the park.

Maybe it’s Miralax enemas and embarrassing conversations with pharmacists. Maybe it’s making popcorn and watching Ratatouille with the roommates. Maybe it’s having to excuse myself from class to go cry in the bathroom. Maybe it’s watching the sunrise through the window of a cafe, early morning walks along the river, thinking that my doorman is a little racist, but liking him anyway. Maybe it’s forgetting my umbrella and getting my toes wet. Maybe it’s dancing in the living room. Maybe it’s writing yourself love letters on the bad days and reading them on the good days, maybe it’s keeping up your weird blog for the people that love you. Maybe it’s going out and doing the things that make me feel like a man, even when I’m convinced I’m a muppet.

Maybe it’s Maybelline.