Things i no longer believe in

a life lesson or two

When I was five, I threw a tantrum in a toy store. Big tears, big eyes, bigger feelings. It all came down with fever, incrementally then rapidly: the magnitude of choice, the weight of a long day, good girl receptive to demands. To comply is to shove it all down, which I failed to do in the most mundane setting, so there I was with my knees going stone cold against the floor. I broke down in the Lego aisle. Looking up at the sales assistant, her fragile facial expression exacerbating my crying, I wanted a reaction more than I wanted politeness. It seemed impossible to get mom to pay attention. Though we stopped for ice cream on the way back, which I took as a sign I might’ve been absolved of my sins, she quietly told me she was disappointed and that the attitude had to go because I was a big girl now. So much room to be somebody and none to just be. The drive home was silent and for a week or so I was obedient, toeing the line of my consequences.

When I was thirteen, I had a boy tell me that with my height, my hair, and my face I “should get real” about my chances of being with him. I’d just professed my big, unruly desire for the first time, handing him a lantern of my curiosity. He had green eyes, broad shoulders, a slightly tilted but confident walk, and I thought he was the coolest there was – there was a lot of similarity in our sly aversion to ourselves, except I had reserved cautiousness for his sense of self and he was quite careless with mine. Whether verbal cruelty is just a person hiding from themselves wasn’t on my mind – ideal people speak in universal truths, I thought. A feeling is a fact. I believed him. Part of me was delighted because if I wasn’t good enough to be his, then at least I was good enough to be ashamed, and that’s a feeling as familiar as heirloom jewels and old memorabilia.

When I was twenty one and aimless, I decided to be more in control. Sacrifices were due, so I took the traditional route. I starved myself until relief was something to hold tight in my hands, tracing my collarbones and ribs, lullabies of growling, circumferencing everything, a geometry sailor. Shrinking is viable when the world is closing in on you, a friend among enemy forces. I was so happy then, ecstatic with the rules clear and the plates untouched. Does a young woman really need a cycle or a working brain? I pillowtalked my way through guys who didn’t care for either, and felt relieved when they’d come around just one more time, a testament to both my importance and impartiality. It felt good when I slapped myself in the face for a piece of cake above my bland fat-free menu threshold. It’s chic to be you, I said, cheek crimson red and tingling. You’re a star, a ship captain, you’re perfect. Don’t call it violence when it’s refinement.

These are my former lives and circumstances I wouldn’t dare to brush off. Pretending I’m a healed clean slate would be crass – erasure is a virtue and the body keeps a real good score. But I know fullness because the loaf cake I’d made for a party had to be tested many times to get it right, I now proclaim success because chocolate batter is a peace offering. I know understanding because I talk to my friend’s little sister about school and boys and how best to survive both when it feels endlessly downward. I know desire because I wake up to sweet kisses all over my body and a gaze that tells me I’m a chiseled Hellenistic sculpture or a golden peach tart from an award-winning patisserie. I know pride because I write things down and hear them echo back through the Atlantic. My big emotions are what brings me closer to you and myself.

At times, even today, I see her ashamed, thawing. It only takes a baby misstep: caught from the wrong angle or tangled in bad feedback, cut with a tinge of criticism, pinned down by a thought of a mythical woman that once reigned my side of the bed, or broken by a bad day. She’s five, she’s thirteen, she’s twenty one, inadequate and alien, making a mess of it, hands tied with a Dangerous Goods label. Shame is like a drop of ink in saline, now everything is murky. But inhale and exhale we do, these are the things I no longer believe in because there is a big world out there that needs me more than the worst voice bargains for. Could you come closer? It would be selfish not to let you in now that you know so much about me. I never liked it underwater. We’re above surface now. These hands are working hard, so I’ll hold them. This mind was made for cooler things, so I’ll talk it down. All of this isn’t to say it gets better, but the lightness of it making sense is why you float. Go do a starfish.