Identity

I had  a conversation with a friend the other night about my deep, dismal sadness and why it seem so overwhelmingly untouchable.  As I cried to him, I said " I don't have an identity" Then I said it again.  "I don't have an identity anymore."  My friend asked when the last time I had an identity was.  This is the story I told him:

I showed up in Bellingham, WA on August 8th, 1998.  I got there after ten days of travel.  It was ten days that should have been four.  I flew from Philadelphia to LAX.  There was a layover in Phoenix. When I got to LA, I  took a shuttle from LAX to my dad's home in Ventura.  Slept until 6:AM for the first time in eight weeks.  Walked to the corner, picked up 5 bacon, egg, cheese and potato burritos from Gutierrez Drive In on the Avenue. When Rosie saw me, she came outside the window.  She rarely did that.  She was very comfortable on the other side of the screen, taking orders and making the salsa.  But that morning, she came out.   I kissed her as she congratulated me for "growing up"and offered the burritos for free.  "Take these for the road," she said.  I smiled and left $20 dollars on the counter.  I heard her yelling at me as I crossed the Avenue and made my way up Warner Street.  "Angie!!! VEN AQUI!  COME BACK HERE!!!"  I just kept walking.  And I laughed as I felt her smile piercing my the back of my head.

Rosie was a part of my growing up.  She always knew when I was sad and would always make sure that there was more cheese and guacamole on my burritos.  She would wink at me, with a knowing grin, when I was happy, and give me extra salsa.  If she hadn't seen me in months, she would say "I have been asking David, pido tu padre, how you are.  He says you are OK,   Como estava, Mija?  You are OK?"  She had been feeding me since I was seven years old, so she always knew what was on my mind when  I showed up at her window.  I was on a schedule, but I had to stop and see her.  I wanted Rosie to see that I was OK.  I also had to get some breakfast burritos.    Got in the Karmann Ghia and made my way north.   

I keep thinking about how strange it is that the last time I really felt like I had an identity was the last time I walked away from Rosie.  I have spent years building community.  But I haven't built an identity.  The last time I had an identity, I was walking away with breakfast burritos.  

-Inner Peas

Alone

I had a really long, really lonely week.  I've been in an overwhelmingly isolationist mindset.  I've been sad and scared and nauseous.  I've been in the place I go to when I don't have any other place to go.  It's what I do when I can't find hope or purpose.  It's the journey I make to the darkest recesses in my soul when I don't think that I deserve light.  It's a place that I hate being, but have a really hard time escaping.

I only left the house twice between Monday and Friday.  Tuesday I paid the rent.  It was horrible.  I had to go to the post office to buy stamps, too.  So, I did that first.  Tuesday afternoon at 1:30 is the best time to go to the post office.  There are very few people in the post office on Tuesday afternoon. Radley loves the post office.  It's beautifully adorned with marble columns outside and stone tiles on the inside.  He likes to cruise around and check out everything that is going on.  The old ladies who still use the post office as their primary means of communication love this kid.  LOVE HIM!

But for me, the post office means I have to stand in line next to other people who don't understand the concepts of personal space, patience and hygiene.  And, in addition to strangers in my space, I have to watch out for a child who is, relatively, well behaved, but still a child.  So, while people step on my feet and push their way into my space, I have to wonder if my child is doing that to someone else.  Anyway, the long and short of it is that the post office is never a very relaxing experience for me.  And after that, I still had to go pay my rent.  Also an anxiety inducing evolution for me.

So, we left the post office.  Paid the rent.  My landlord said "You don't look good."  Well, thank you. It's because I got laid off, and you keep raising the rent and I don't have a dishwasher.  That's what I thought, not what I said.  What I said was "I'm so sorry I didn't make it in yesterday, I've been so sick the last few days.  Oh, and Happy Anniversary!"  Please like me  because I'm trying really hard to be a good tenant!  And I really like having a home!  "Thank you."

That same day I also had to return the movies to Redbox and since I was already at Lucky, I decided I should put some food in the fridge.  After milk, grapes and cereal, I was pretty much at the end of my tolerance for the real world.  So, I went back home and closed the doors and the curtains and prayed for solace.  I prayed so hard I must have sounded like a beggar on the universe's deaf ears.  After I dropped Radley off for his play date, I screamed into my hands, hoping my fingers would hold the tears inside my eyes.

After that really humbling experience with my reality and the universe, I didn't get off the couch except to make dinner and then breakfast the next morning until 6:PM on Wednesday night.  Jess texted me and asked if I needed anything.  I told her I was hungry but couldn't eat.  She came over.  Instead of going to get something, I said "Let's get delivery."  Instead of calling the Chinese restaurant, I downloaded an app on my phone and spent 30 minutes setting it up and ordering  lemon chicken, broccoli beef and egg rolls.  Just so I didn't have to talk to anyone.  Then I said "Oh, I need a diet coke."  So we walked to the market across the street.

I tried really hard to eat.  I tried really hard to make conversation with my best friend.  Nothing worked.  I still felt sick.  I still couldn't make words come.  I was a fucking mess.  I gave my son a bath and put him to bed and took Xanex.  I laid there in silence, begging the world to quiet itself.  But it just wouldn't.  The noise in my head would not shut the fuck up.  At that point, I had no other option but to get up and make a list of things that needed to get done the next day.  I made a promise to myself that I would do the dishes, make the beds, and shave my legs.

I did all three.  It was a huge accomplishment.  I felt tremendously gratified as I crossed all three of those tasks off my list.  I even made a joke about it on social media.  It seemed like a joke, but it was actually a big fucking deal.  Then, I got a little too excited and did more laundry and the fucking washer broke.  It broke.

It.  Fucking.  Broke.  

Really, washing machine?  I needed one fucking victory, and you break?  Noted.

But what happened while I was trying to solve the broken washing machine conundrum was amazing.  I got offers of assistance.  I got direction on how to deal with the situation.  I got shamed into trying to fix it myself.  I got calls from my best friends, who have their own crises to contend with.  

So, while this has been the loneliest week of my life, I am reminded that I am not alone.  That, in itself, is humbling.

-Inner Peas