Tag: Fear

The Re-gifted Reindeer

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Photo Dec 24, 2 05 42 AM

Get out the wrapping paper. It’s re-gifting time.

Yes, I’m home for Christmas. I’m 30. And — in some cultures — I’m what passes for an adult. Yet, here I am, on the couch in my parent’s living room, sitting cross-legged in my pajamas — wearing sparkly reindeer antlers.

For a just a moment — I judge myself harshly. I mean, how is it, really, that after all this time and after all the crap I’ve been through — grown-up heartbreak, real-life lessons, crap-ass jobs, meaningful-to-meager relationships — that I’ve returned home only to be reduced to some primitive version of myself?

Truthfully, I’m not sure. Which is why, this year, I’m trying to cut my bad self a little slack. I’m starting to realize that my self-assessments were never really quite accurate. Each sober day that passes, I make new peace with whoever this woman is that I’m becoming. I’m no teenager — despite the very-real-feeling that I will remain seventeen for all perpetuity. And, while it’s true that, most days, I wish I were something different — something more — I’m starting to feel more comfortable declaring my own instability.

The holiday season is a time for compassion. We’re supposed to go deep and give big. And this year, the only way I can give more of myself is to dust off those old, buried pieces of my soul — the ones that I deemed unfit for consumption. Perhaps I was too hasty in writing myself off. I think it’s time that I dug out my old gifts and gave my new, sober hardware a run for its money.

It’s time to start re-gifting. — Re-gifting myself.

So many of us hand out the same gifts, year after year. We give away the safe pieces of our heart — the pieces with smooth edges — the parts of us that we think are worthy. I’m realizing that it’s time to start putting more on the table. It’s time to bust out the sharp-edged-second-tier-heart-bits.

Sobriety has taught me how to give more of myself. And, sometimes, it’s uncomfortable. Showing up to the holiday party with extra baggage is scary. We give ourselves the illusion of being in control when we allow everything in our lives to remain the same. — And, let’s face it, there is something comforting about the neighbor showing up with the same-fucking-fruitcake every year — even if it’s become your annual tradition to drop it into the trash can like a brick.

I sit on the couch, my festive, sequined antlers twinkling in the Christmas tree lights, and I’m reminded that I need to re-purpose these negative feelings. Especially the ancient ones that were written into my DNA long ago. How we see ourselves is just the story we write in our own heads. It’s time to write something better. My family will always expect one version of Sarah — but the truth is, they’ll have to accept whatever Santa decides to throw under the tree. And, by actually facing my own shortcomings, I become less apologetic for the things I’m not.

This year, I encourage you to re-gift all the things that don’t serve you. Write something new. Find the unused parts of your heart. Predictable appearances are overrated.

Give more.

Red noses get noticed. Let your freak flag fly.

The Ghosts Of Christmas Past

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Photo Dec 16, 7 29 02 PM

“Spirit!” said Scrooge in a broken voice, “remove me from this place.”

“I told you these were shadows of the things that have been,” said the Ghost. “That they are what they are, do not blame me!”

December 20, 2011 — My phone rang, waking me with a start. It was my mother, which I found odd because she knew to never to call me before noon. And, in that off moment of sleepy confusion — I knew — she had bad news. At the end of the line, a coast away, my mother choked out the words: My cousin had been killed the night before in a tragic accident. She had bought me a plane ticket home. I was going back East.

I had been drunk, almost constantly, for several months prior to his death. And, in the truly sobering moments that followed my mother’s phone call, I struggled to locate my emotion. I had rendered myself dull and numb. Tears dammed up behind my eyes. Words got caught in my larynx. Nothing in the room moved — except my arm — which swung out to my right side, off the bed, and grabbed for the open bottle of gin sitting on my bedside table. 7:43AM. I remember. I took a swig.

At work, my gracious coworkers had rallied for me. The skeleton crew that remained for the Christmas holiday had all divvied up my waitressing shifts without complaint. The bartender slipped me shots of whiskey during dinner service. It was the first time I ever drank on the job. After my shift, I sat at the pub around the corner from my apartment and I drank more. Bourbon. I left at last call and I only slept for a few hours before waking up and tossing my clothing into a suitcase haphazardly between swigs from my bottle of bedroom gin.

I arrived at the airport early and I sat at the bar while I waited to board my flight. As I slurped up the last, red sip of my 4th Bloody Mary through a long black straw, the man next to me asked me if he could buy me another. “I’m guessing you’re not having such a Merry Christmas,” he said. The bartender put my 5th drink down in front of me as the man got up. “Happy Holidays,” he said, wheeling his bag toward the gate. When I asked the bartender for my tab, she told me that the man had taken care of my entire bill.

I have never been so drunk on a plane. I ordered two 2 vodkas — the flight attendant handed me the 4 little minis like a vendor at a sporting event. I didn’t bother to mix them with my club soda. I remember holding each blue bottle up to my lips — one, then another, then another. I woke up from a blackout as we hit the runway at JFK International Airport. My head felt like it had been slammed between two bricks. My cousin met me at the baggage claim, where we collapsed into each other’s arms and cried. As we walked to the car she said, “Jesus Christ, Sarah. You reek of vodka.”

It has never been necessary to hide my drinking from my family. This behavior was routine — my routine — our routine. And, given the circumstance of my return, I wasn’t the only one taking nips on the sly. We shuttled from my childhood home, to my aunt and uncle’s house in New Jersey, and back again. We all wept and drank. We sat perfectly still between embraces, and we were silent between sobs. The Christmas decorations only noted the season. We’d all forgotten what day is was — the clocks had stopped and the calendar was just a piece of paper on the wall.

Christmas Day, just days after the funeral, I flew home to Portland. I drank more vodka on the plane. And, when we landed, I had my cabbie drive me directly to the pub. I didn’t bother to stop at home and drop off my bags. For last call, the bartender turned off the juke box and played Elvis’ Blue Christmas and I got up to vomit in the women’s room.

*           *           *

This will be my third sober Christmas. And, when I arrive at PDX to fly East, I will sit and wait for my plane at the gate — not the bar. I will sip my complimentary cranberry cocktail and I will page through a fashion magazine and listen to Frank Sinatra’s Christmas albums on my headphones. I will lay my head on the folding tray and try to sleep until the captain illuminates the “Fasten Seat Belt Sign” and announces our descent.

At JFK, I will walk past the baggage carousel and see the same spot where my cousin and I fell into each other’s arms before she drove me home, stinking of vodka. And, while I wait in the taxi line, the dam will break and I will cry again for my cousin who is gone.

I will pull my bags out of the back seat of a yellow cab and I will hug my mother on the stoop of our house in Brooklyn. When I walk in our front door, I will smell the perfume of the Douglas Fir. And when I see that Christmas tree, lit, in the corner of our living room — nostalgia will stop my heart for a just a few beats. My father will come down the squeaky steps and fold me in his arms before he kisses my forehead and says, “It’s good to have you home Monkeybird.” And, in my eyes, he’ll see — It’s good to be home.

It’s also good to be sober. So, I won’t think about drinking until I open the cabinet to the left of the microwave. I always find my old bottle of Jim Beam while I’m looking for something else in my mother’s kitchen. I poured my cousin a secret drink from that same bottle on Thanksgiving Day, 2011, just a month before his death. It seems fitting that the bottle should remain unfinished. And so, I honor his memory with every drink I do not take.

These were shadows of things that have been. — That they are what they are, do not blame me.

So, I leave my bottle on the shelf for ghosts. Because, my parents never cared for bourbon.

Which is crazy. — I know.

 

 

[Italicized Prose Excerpt: Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol; Artwork (before edits): Sol Eytinge, Jr.]

Pardoning The Turkey-Bird

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Photo Dec 02, 9 31 58 PM

If you’re in the mood for a sentimental Thanksgiving retrospective — you’re shit outta luck.

There will be no jovial, light hearted fluff piece where I wax poetic on my many, zany family characters nor will I dramatize the hilarious-pseudo-tragedy of some overcooked turkey disaster. Because, this year, my family was in New York and I’m a vegan.

The one thing I must note, after the events of this Thanksgiving weekend, is the serendipitous nature of life — the law of attraction, fate, God’s will — call it what you want. Sometimes the universe will fork something over that’s too good for telling. The kind of holiday story that can be tied up with a big, red bow and stuck under our existential Christmas trees like a present for each one of us to open with glee, whilst sipping peppermint hot cocoa. The kind of story that does best living in our hearts. A holiday tale that sounds better between our ears than it does between periods, dashes, and commas.

Thanksgiving Day, I drove to a friend’s house with three huge bags full of frozen Tofurky pizzas, guacamole, and coconut ice cream. I slowed on Belmont Street. As I approached the Horse Brass Pub, I felt it — the cosmic pull. I felt my foot pulse on the brake. And, truly, I considered it — stopping there for just one drink. I could feel my fingers wrapped around a rocks glass. I could hear the scratched, smokey laughter of the three, old men sitting next to me. I felt the vibration of that solemn energy which always hangs in the air of bars on holidays. You can feel it — the nights where everyone who’s ponied up to the bar knows — they should be somewhere else. I recall the permission that just one drink could afford me — how I could forgive myself for a lifetime of letting my love and my joy escape me.

I’m not sure what moved me. Maybe it was the the thawing pizza and melting ice cream, or, maybe it was the thought of my friend sitting alone in his house, but, I decided to accelerate. I decided to forgo the one drink that would have turned into my entire holiday. As I drove past the bar, casting my gaze out of the passenger window, I saw them — locked gates. The bar windows were dark, their neon signs coiled and black. THANKSGIVING. Suddenly I became  aware — stopping here — was never my decision.

Give thanks. It’s so much bigger than we are — this life. I’ve chosen to be sober in an attempt, however feeble, to have the best life possible — the life that I was meant to be living before I lost myself. But, more often than not, being sober is hard, and staying sober is harder. When I decide how to walk the path, too many times, I end up stranded. I watch my imagined life and how it continues to fall short of my expectations. I wander down the “safe” path when, all along, the universe has been calling me to travel the uncharted road.

So, this Thanksgiving, I decide that I am no longer going to decide. Right there on Belmont, I learned to forgive — I pardoned my inner-Turkey-bird.

During the holidays, I tap into the childish wonder I once possessed. I listen and I watch for magic. And, when I do that — the path finds me. The world falls into place, however haphazardly. And, I keep driving.

Because, the gate is locked, friends are waiting, and the bag of frozen groceries is melting.

Bed Rest

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Christina's+Bedroom

This past week, while quarantined in my bed with an unknown virus, I had a pseudo-shaman-eureka-moment.

Maybe it was the dehydration, or, maybe it was the 19 hours of sleep that I got the night before, but, I woke up to find shadows dancing on the ceiling, feeling completely alone, and yet, somehow, completely capable of caring for my own well being. After years of feeling like a perpetual child, I had a moment where I began to understand, I think, it what it is to actually be an adult — it was completely devastating — and liberating.

I would never have arrived at this moment if I weren’t sober. Because, self-reliance isn’t something you find at the bottom of a rocks glass. In my drinking days I was reliant on at least 1 other person at all times — a Mr. Jim Beam — and most of the time,  2 people, if we’re counting Tony — my favorite bartender.

How did I get here — Sobriety? Adulthood? When did I become responsible enough to care for this person?

I can hardly remember. And, I still forget my own strength. I’ve always pawned my victories. There’s something incredibly scary about being in control, especially when you feel like you should be anything but.

In my sick bed — bored with streaming television, fatigued by books, and with little energy to move, I found myself wondering when my determination, my heart — the parts that got me sober — stopped beating with wild fervor. Sure, I still go through the motions. I take my obligatory morning shower. I sit in traffic. I shuffle my feet to work. I chuckle at my boss’ jokes. But, everyday, I’m still just waiting. Waiting for something to happen.

When did I stop getting out of bed? I’ve been ill for a week, but, it feels like so, so much longer.

Staring at the ceiling, things start to come together. Though, truly, nothing really comes to us while we’re laying in bed — or while we’re standing still. The universe has never been perfect or logical or sequential when delivering the goods. I’ve always had to meet the stars half way.

I must choreograph the movements. I have to dance it. To make it. To write it. And for the first time I think, maybe, I get it: You have to treat adulthood the same way you would alcoholism or the flu. — Sleep it off.

I decide to set my alarm. I’m getting up. I’m going.

I’ve got plans to meet the stars half way there.

 

 

**Artwork By: Andrew Wyeth; Christina’s Bedroom, 1947, Watercolor on Paper.

All Roads Lead To Rome

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Photo Nov 05, 6 46 45 AM

I am a terrible navigator.

Since getting sober, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been lost. Whenever I find myself rehashing my own mistakes, re-examining all the wrong turns, I pick up one of my 12-Step coins. I let it warm my hands. My time — encapsulated in a little, metal circle. A reminder that things are only as far away from us as we allow them to be. I find myself asking — again: Why did I choose this direction? How has all this time gotten away from me?

I’ve stayed on the wrong road before — even when I knew I’d end up lost. Is it fear I’ll never find the right road that keeps me trudging, ever onward? Fear that I’ll become even more lost than I already am? Why don’t I just turn back and ask for directions at the gas station 15 miles behind me? I don’t know — and it’s my guess that I’m not meant to.

So, I consider it — staying on this road that will eventually spit me out somewhere unplanned.

New warning signs come from behind me, swept up in an autumn breeze that pulls the leaves off the tree of my sobriety. I’m having trouble deciphering my marching orders from the things I’m supposed to ignore. Can something be right and wrong simultaneously? Probably. But, as usual, everything I wish were clear — isn’t. The longer I stay here, walking endlessly forward, the closer the answer becomes:  The truth — That’s the road I want. Even if is does go on forever, without mercy.

Yes. Sweet, sweet honesty. The bring-er of all things unpleasant. A truth that will require my admitting that, yes, I turned down this — the wrong road — willingly. All these crooked turns live somewhere in my heart. My own decisions are at the eye of the storm. I want to hide it, my creased map of poor choices. But, a lesson I’ve learned for certain: Bottling up this kind of truth — is dangerous. Risky-fucking-business. Once sealed, the pressure mounts. The truth will attempt an escape before I’m ready. But, ready or not, here it comes.

So, I pay a visit to a person I trust. I unleash the beast. Because, sometimes, you have to let the truth out, first, to the wrong party. You have to say the words. You have to let the truth wet your lips before you seek out its intended recipient. When you’ve got a bottle of truth, you’ve got two options — drink it or spill it.

I decide to spill. I pour it out like a bottle of cheap, red wine. I let it stain the carpet.

The truth is, sometimes, I take the wrong road on purpose. Because, sometimes, that’s the only way you’ll find it —

The road that leads you home.

 

Haunted

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blondes

Ghosts. Some will stay with you. Some will leave you.

It goes far beyond trick or treat. Many of my ghosts still go “Boo!” in the night, but, most of them haunt me from afar. Actually, some of my ghosts aren’t dead at all — they’re very much alive.

I still find it difficult to believe that this is my third, sober Halloween. The first was euphoric. My first holiday after getting clean, I sat on a chilly porch in a big, grey hoodie. I wore a knit animal hat with my best friend, who had one too. We laughed, passed out candy, and I felt like — for the first time — I had finally discovered what I wanted in life and that I had it — sitting there on that porch — sober. My second Halloween, I was completely lost. This time last year, I was more haunted than ever. I was flanked by ghosts — most of which, weren’t even mine. I wore a blonde wig. I sat, with over a year of sobriety, wishing I were somewhere else — someone else. I wanted to change a situation that wasn’t mine to change. I ignored my own fear. I hid from it. I took a smug selfie, which I posted on Facebook with the caption: “So, blondes really do have more fun.” I thought that if I typed it out, maybe I would believe it were true — It wasn’t. Even my smirk lied.

This year, I don’t know what to expect. I feel a ghost walking next to me. Part of me wants to run. Part of me wants to offer up my skeleton-hand. Sometimes the only way to chase away spooks is to face them. Look them in the eye. And, sometimes, it’s best to realize that ghosts are ghosts, and to leave them, where they belong, in the ground.

Sobriety makes choices like these, easier. I know what’s practical, rational, and even wise. But, knowing has no bearing on my impulse. When I feel, I feel big. My heart opens like a flower, or it seizes up like the breaks on a runaway train. I’ve lived in my own extremes. My first and second Halloween in sobriety were my typical modus operandi — High/Low. Utopia/The Underworld. So, what’s next? What follows up the two, opposite ends of the spectrum? Normalcy? Mediocrity? Boredom? Stability? Do I want those things?

I think of that first year, my friend, smiling, in his blue-cat-hat. How I shoved Reece’s Peanut Butter cups into my face and thought: This is what it’s really about — Joy. Laughter. Freedom. Love. — That porch was cold, but heat radiated from a new place in my heart and I felt a warmth I hadn’t realized I had inside myself. I think how,  a year later, that same warmth had burned out. How even warm rooms felt cold. How ghosts filed in and took what wasn’t theirs to take. How I hid inside myself and kept smiling. I didn’t know — A blonde wig wouldn’t fool anyone. Even  myself.

I wish I had some crumb of wisdom for you in this post. I wish I could offer something honest and true that would carry some weight. A bit of hope. A story where all the costumes fit. A story where the candy doesn’t rot your teeth. But, all I can think about is how it feels — being haunted. Quiet, secretive, and dark. I suppose it’s only appropriate that as All Hallows’ Eve nears, all the undead and invisible spirits have come to pay me a visit. My own heart-hinges are creaky and they echo here in my haunted-house-head.

I offer up a prayer for the dead. For the ghosts that still haunt me and for those that have gone their own way. It’s the best I can do. I pray that, this year, things fall on even ground. That there is happiness and reverence. That, whether my wig is on or off, I am who I am — without fear.

As for the ghost at my side — there’s no escaping it — I reach out my skeleton-hand.

 

Peripheral Visions

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Photo Oct 21, 5 29 00 PM

I don’t worry about the obvious things.

When I enter a state of worried-panicked-frenzy, I know better than to examine what’s right in front of my nose. I have always managed to keep those details well tended. The thing I am wary of: The periphery.

I, like many alkies and addicts, am very good at keeping up appearances. I know what to say and how to say it — even to myself. I mastered that skill long, long ago. Back while I was still drinking, I had to convince myself, and you, that I was not only OK, but, better than OK. — Great. Stellar. Perfect.

These days, I often find myself painfully sober. So, I keep up other appearances. Without the booze, emotions and feelings become a special-kind-of-complicated — communicating them, containing them, and sometimes hiding them — even more so. I feel it, the hair on my arms stands up as the pub turns on it’s magical-magnetic-tracking-device. I fight the pull. But, I keep quiet, because I’m OK. — I think.

But, that’s how it happens. Or, so I’m told. Seasoned, sober old-timers will tell you that it starts, first, with that teeny-tiny, itty-bitty, little thought — You’re OK. The second thought becomes — well, a bourbon might end up being OK too. And, the third thought — there’s no time for that — because you’re already seated on a bar stool. Struck drunk.

It isn’t obvious. All these little things appear innocuous. The fucking periphery.

So, I tread lightly. I can’t see where or how all the shit starts to pile up. But, I’m starting to notice my own cracks and how they’ve widened. I’m no fortune teller. I can’t say when or how, or even if, it will collapse. Yeah. Maybe, it won’t collapse. But, it’s there — the little voice that tells me — It. Just. Might. Collapse.

The not-so-obvious feeling. That’s the one that worries me.

On a Friday night, I stay in as a precaution. I sit at the dining room table and I write it down in Sharpie marker on a little, maroon notepad — the most obvious thing I can think of: Don’t fuck it up.

I pour myself another cup of coffee.

It’s tenuous and tenacious — my sobriety. In this moment I respect it’s power. I allow my unwise inclinations to dissolve. I let them go. I don’t judge them.

Lots of things can happen, the good and the bad. So, I decide to open my eyes a little bit wider. I monitor the periphery closely.

In a still moment, my little feelings subside. My coffee mug is still warm in my hands. I’m here. Now. And — I’m OK.

Better than OK. — I’m Great. Stellar. Perfect.

 

Strangers With Candy

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stranger

Sometimes, I don’t know myself.

Getting sober has been a crazy evolution.  I’ve glided, then bounced, through various stages of metamorphosis. But, despite charting my own movements, I’m still a stranger.

What’s even scarier than not knowing the person I’ve become — is liking her. She sees things in a new, easy-going way. She’s funny. She doesn’t care about crap that doesn’t matter — for the most part anyway. She’s more and more consistent with every month that passes. And, sometimes, that means she’s a consistent mess, but there’s a stability in her clutter that feels like some kind of Darwinian progress.

She’s shown me that when I let myself cave and make some room,  I have the ability to develop into a different, better version of myself. For a time, I kept things as small as possible — contained them. I used to think that if any one thing got too big — it would all go to shit. Back then, I was set on taking things. Now, the space I inhabit is given to me. There isn’t an internal struggle for territory any longer. I’m kinder to myself. I respect my own wisdom. And, while I will still break my own rules, my own promises, and occasionally my own heart — I know that I can trust myself to see things as they are.

A fog has lifted. My mind no longer talks in a desperate, panicked voice. I’m less apologetic: Life’s too short for desperation. — Take me or leave me.

This stranger I’ve allowed to inhabit my space — I listen to her — even if I choose to ignore her advice. Like me, she is sensitive and pragmatic, but, she knows where a bit of tough love and recklessness will serve her — and us. She has good ideas. Sometimes, I even think I trust her.

So I do this thing — this dancing with myself. And, it’s not so bad. We cut a rug almost as well as my father and I do at family weddings. This woman suit I wear — it fits better than when I first tried it on. I’m almost comfortable. Maybe the older, more rigid version of myself has finally softened. And, suddenly, this person I never intended to be — the one I avoided — has become the best version of me yet. Go figure.

Sometimes strangers will offer you candy — let yourself be tempted. This other version of me — She was patient. She was kind. She moved slowly, allowing me to change without seeing or feeling it. She snuck into my day to day being. And, just like that — I was someone new.

Like a chameleon, I shed that skin — old feelings and people — it feels good. I discover that those things we hold on to so desperately are the things that we need to let go of most. Discarding the older version of yourself, the one that no longer fits, is liberating — like tossing out your “fat jeans.” It’s more than a costume change. It’s a declaration.

Give in. Go without a fight. Evolve.

Take the candy.

 

 

 

 

Queen Of Tides

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Photo Oct 01, 6 43 09 AM

The tide goes out.

Fucking planetary shifts. Everything feels like it’s moving but, in truth, it all remains the same.

I’ve been toggling between complete abandon and steadfast rigidity. Even in my sobriety, there is lack of balance. I make subtle shifts in an attempt to adjust, but, I’m still unsure if I’m putting my weight on the right foot. I only know one thing for sure: I cannot keep standing still.

Change is like pulling teeth. Gritty, bloody, then sore. I’m the Queen of Comfortable. I like knowing what’s next. Guarded. Predictable. Safe. But I’m finding, these days, that I’ve started to lose interest in safety. Being stationary — a statue in status quo — has never been my forte. But, moving in a different direction is scary. There are only certain people and things I can count on — what if they don’t move when I do?

I ask myself, should I listen to my mother? Or God? Or my heart? — Are they all the same? Is the crazy, homeless guy outside my apartment window my guru? — Probably not, a friend tells me. So who’s the expert? Is it me? Maybe that little voice going off inside me isn’t wrong. Starting over is hard. Starting from scratch is harder. I try to remember that I’ve become skilled at wading through the changing tides.

I wonder how many things I’ll change my mind about this week. Which dreams I’ll abandon — And what I’ll exchange them for.

I sometimes think about what I’m missing while I’m busy giving myself lectures on why things can’t and won’t turn out well. Being careful, playing my cards right, waiting until the iron is hot, then striking — it’s all a satin bow on my rotting pile of procrastination. I’m tired of waiting. For a long time it was someone else who held my strings in place. Now, I’ve no one to blame but myself.

I lay quietly in the dark — I allow myself to hear the sad thoughts that make my heart turn to glop. It’s the stillness, not the mayhem, that draws the tide back in — gravity. The water glides with such ease, when it’s finally pulled back into the well at the ocean’s core, it leaves behind soft lines in the sand — they wait under the waves until the water peels back like wrapping paper.

The moon is up. And, I think — maybe I’ll do something crazy.

Everything is different. Gravity.

The tide comes in.

 

dop·pel·gäng·er

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Photo Sep 16, 9 18 24 PM

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Friday morning, I changed seven times.

When I looked up from buttoning the shirt I would unbutton seconds later, I expected to see someone else staring back at me in the mirror. But — it’s always her.

I turned to face my profile and pull at the bottom of my shirt. I was running late and didn’t have time to change again, but — I did anyway.

I’m not sure when this happened — but my reflection has become some strange sort of foe. It appears we agree on simple things like: cotton versus polyester, but, the clothes hang off us differently. Colors distract us.  Most of our wardrobe is black. And her expression is always sullen — to match our sweaters. But, things shift. I’m starting to see colors explode through the seams. I feel her fight the smile that creeps up at the corners of my mouth.

Across the river, at work, her reflection finds me again. She glares out from the glass doors of my office building, melting in the morning light like a Dalí painting. I shift my red tote bag around my torso to cover my waist. There’s no hiding from her though — she sees through things. Totes. Camisoles. Layers of mascara. Thick, glossy nail polish. Geeky frames. Bras. Boots. She catches me at angles that others do not.

My own disconnect still surprises me. She’s an imposter. I can’t read her.

I want her to look some other way. I want her to laugh more. I miss that — my own laughter and how it escapes wildly — a thousand big bangs imploding in my chest. Suddenly, I want to laugh at everything. I bite the side of my cheek.

I check my teeth in the ladies’ room mirror. A big, toothy smile. Is that happiness? Laughter? I’m not sure I’d even recognize it. But, truthfully, there’s not much of anything I recognize these days — It leaves me space to feel something new.

On the drive home, my eyes meet hers in the rear view. I decide only one of us will survive the summer. And — it’s me.

I turn up the stereo so loud that the bass shakes the little, white cat that’s glued to my dash. In a line of cars, waiting to cross the Ross Island Bridge, I pull my hair loose from its tight-tied bun. My auburn locks fall softly around my ears and the dying wind of summer kicks them up behind my headrest. I pull off my cardigan, in my eighth and final costume change of the day, and let my left shoulder bake in the sun.

Today, I’m showing up. — Myself. Alone. Take it or leave it. I dump my doppelgänger on the West bank of the Willamette.

As I make my way over the bridge, Mt. Hood welcomes me back to the East side. I drive up Division and turn down 16th Ave. I let myself get lost myself in a maze of circular streets, crowded with babies and bikers. I pull over. I turn off the engine. — I think I’m alone now.

Seat belt still fastened, with five minutes to spare, I throw my head back and I laugh, hard, before making my solo debut.