TW // past suicidal thoughts
It’s not unusual for me to get lost in thought, but I typically try not to when I'm walking around in the early hours of the morning. I can tell by the clear sky it’s going to be sunny later, and it disarms me a little, making me feel safe for a moment. I haven’t been sleeping or eating much lately, and it’s starting to get to the point where I can’t make jokes about it anymore. I’m aware it’s getting bad again, and even though I’m sure most of it has nothing to do with this, I think about being seventeen. Back then, I asked every well-meaning adult the same question: “But if I killed myself, all of this would go away, right?” I always said it in the most annoying way possible too. Probably because nobody could really deny it. My mom used to walk away before I could finish, and my therapist would just stare at me blankly and write something down on her notepad. It felt nice to have something adults couldn’t answer, to feel right for once.
Yes, it would all go away.
I’m interrupted by one of the older Hispanic ladies that sell chocolate bars near the M train every day. I’ve seen her before, sometimes with a few other women, but today she is alone. She has the same brand I had to sell in high school; the same year everything fell apart. She’s cursing quietly at the several bars strewn across the sidewalk and looking around helplessly. Without a second thought, I pick up the candies and arrange them label-up in her box. I have the time. I’m abnormally early for work again, and after all the teasing from my coworkers last time, it would probably be better to wait for the next train anyway. Her face is covered, but her presence feels familiar, like the old family friends who lingered on the edges of the parties my parents used to throw before all their friends moved out of Brownsville.
Gracias, mija. Eres muy querida. Que Dios te bendiga."
“Thank you, my daughter. You are very loved. May God bless you.”
It would all go away.
I end up right on time for the next train. It’s empty, so I pick my favorite seat, which is any in the row facing the right-side window. By now, I’ve calmed down a bit, the older woman’s words gently cupping something inside of me I always forget seems to be there. Before the city rolls into view, the train passes a cluster of apartments built uncomfortably close to the subway tracks. I can see right into the lives of most of their residents, even from the opposite side of the train. Some of the apartments are gorgeous, probably to offset the proximity of the train. Each glass box contains a multitude of tasteful vintage movie posters, a guitar or keyboard leaning against a wall, tropical houseplants, and a spacious kitchen island. Today I can see a woman sitting at a desk on her computer, multiple dishes splayed across the aforementioned kitchen island. She looks unhappy, but I’m too far away to really tell. Maybe I’m just projecting. If she is sad, I’m glad she doesn’t seem to be alone, given the number of dishes. She looks up from her computer until the train passes, hand resting under her chin.
It would all go away.
After the train doors close at the Marcy Avenue stop, Manhattan's skeleton slowly emerges. The Empire State Building appears between blinks and brick buildings. I smile to myself when I think of Lauren accidentally calling it the Eiffel Tower one night on our way to satisfy our craving for udon, deliriously happy. The sun is high in the sky by now, and as the train reaches the Williamsburg Bridge, the full skyline seems to glitter. My mind quiets down. I think if you grew up in a small town, you’ll always take a deep breath whenever you feel like you’re being catapulted into a big city. I close my eyes and picture Maryjane’s red car streaking across the Bay Bridge like a comet last summer, our hair messy and tangled from having the windows down. It always fascinated me how we could suddenly just “appear” in San Francisco no matter how many times we made the drive. The once loud car was engulfed in disbelieving silence. I remember all of us leaning forward in our seats to see the tops of the buildings, all the bright colors, and the bustling crowds. When I open my eyes again, the train is finally underground, running through the veins of the city.
It would all go away.
The rest of the day is swept up in color-matching concealer, in-depth discussions about the pros and cons of retinol, and how alarming it is that so many people are unknowingly allergic to seaweed extract. It’s rewarding because it’s so personal. I can’t hand just any person a bright pink lipstick hoping they’ll like it. My job forces me to examine, be honest, pay attention, and care. And I do. A customer I had a few weeks ago hugged me after I helped her pick out a cream blush. I think about her, the pair of middle-aged women on a girl’s trip who called me “the coolest chick in NYC,” and the mom angrily yelling at her two kids but interrupting herself to smile and tell me I have “beautiful skin.” Nobody had to do any of those things, but they wanted to, just like how I wanted to pick up the older lady’s chocolates. Something clicks. It usually does every time I can manage to leave my apartment these days. In a city filled with so many people, this isn’t a new revelation, but the weight of it feels shockingly new every time.
It would all go away.
On the train back home, I try to repeat my morning pastime but get distracted. I had switched on a random playlist on my walk to the subway and was now transfixed by the melody of a song I’d known for years but finally seemed to truly understand. I’ve always hated how emotional I can get, how stifling it feels to not be able to escape something inside of me, and how I can remember everything. The progress I made throughout the day dwindles away as the song drones on, and I’m furious by the time I get off the train. I find myself thinking things like, “I wish I’d never met them. I wish that never happened to me. I wish I’d never known life could be that way.” I’m so distraught that I can’t even narrow the sentiments down to one person; the faces of all the people I’ve lost or pushed away keep morphing into each other with every chorus. I rip out my earbuds. My apartment is cold and dark; everything is as I left it. I don’t cry, but I want to when I calm down enough to admit I was lying. I’d rather cry to a song than forget everything. I remind myself I have the sadness so I can remember.
My phone buzzes and my mom’s face illuminates the screen. It’s an old picture. I took it one afternoon when we went to the beach to watch the sunset, just the two of us. She hates it. She told me the hair in her eyes made her face look wrinkly, but I kept it anyway because she looked happy. I keep dodging her calls, but I’m sure she knows why. She told me over Christmas that she knows something’s wrong when she doesn’t hear from me because I like to talk about stupid things for hours, like how I might like coffee now and how annoying it is that strawberries go bad so quickly. I hate saying I ignore her on purpose, but she’s the only person that can get anything out of me with a single word, and truthfully, I’m just sick of crying. Most nights, I don’t even know why I am, but the promise of a piercing migraine has been good at keeping any tears at bay for a few days. I’m about to press decline until I see her smile and think of her decision to bring me into this world and love me despite the fact that I could die at any moment. We are both still here, so I answer the call.
“Hello?”
“¡Lulu! Cómo estás?
“Lulu! How are you?”
She’s calling me by my childhood nickname, another indicator that she knows something is wrong. Her voice sounds far away and tinny, and when I hear pots crashing and cursing in the background, I paint a scene in my head; she’s in the kitchen cooking dinner with my dad. They’re both in their pajamas, and my cat is rolling around on our purple kitchen mat, paws by her face, hoping that acting cute will earn her a piece of chicken. I hear my mom’s slippers slapping against the tile, her curly hair probably bouncing behind her as she rushes back to the phone. She wasn’t expecting me to answer. I hear some shuffling and then a burst of sound. I’ve been put on speakerphone.
“I’m okay.” I mostly mean it. “¿Que hacen?
“What are you guys doing?”
“I’m making dinner with your dad. Luis, say hello to Lulu.” she grits the last part out through her teeth as if to say, “Don’t ruin this.” I hear my dad’s slippers and a gruff murmur of “Hola, Lula.”
“Hey, dad.”
A beat.
“How’s the cat?”
I hear her slippers again and then silence. She’s taken me off speakerphone and probably walked into the living room that's currently washed in the dim, leftover yellow light from the kitchen.
“Sophie, are you okay?”
I can feel hot tears start forming, and the phantom throb behind my temples materializes again. I think of being seventeen and my question. The answer is still annoyingly the same. Yes, it would all go away, but now I think what everyone was trying to tell me with their silence was yes, everything would.
