Author: Lauren H.

On Work and Children

/ Lauren H. / Leave a comment

The Johnsons were her first regular babysitting job, and Clarissa found the next-door neighbor twins quite challenging. 

It wasn’t their behavior as much as it was their appearance or their odor. They smelled like kids – like the starch that escapes a Cheerio after it’s softened in a pile of drool. Greasy tendrils of hair clung to their sweaty heads as if they’d just rolled out of bed at 4 in the afternoon. Each time they ran in or out of a room, a waft of tepid perspiration trailed behind them, twisting her mouth into an unmistakable frown.

And their bedroom … God, their bedroom. It served as a protective capsule, housing every fart they’d released since they were born. She dreaded that inevitable hour later, when she’d have to brave that invisible wall of funk to get them ready for bed. She prayed they wouldn’t make her read to them tonight. Last time she was treated to a thumb full of crusted oatmeal resting in the fold of the book jacket. 

“Gross, guys,” she’d muttered.

“GROSS GUYS! GROSS GUYS!” they’d chanted, jumping up and down in their red-and-grimy-white striped pajamas, wearing her disdain as a badge of honor. 

It was that night that she knew she’d never want children. 

This job was no longer the mark of her new teenage independence. She could now see this job for what it was – work. Something to suffer through long enough to be rewarded with cash. 

It was also the night that she knew she’d never want to work.

This is a little piece from my most recent writing class assignment. Try it yourself: Start with the line The Johnsons were her first regular babysitting job, and Clarissa found the next-door neighbor twins quite challenging. Lean in on descriptions using multiple senses.

The Window

/ Lauren H. / Leave a comment

The windows in her house are less than three years old, yet the pair in her bedroom let in a draft so large it sweeps her Juul rings up to the bedroom ceiling. Banjo, her faithful hound, follows the almost-invisible trail of vapor with his head; if she didn’t know better, she’d think he saw a ghost.

Perhaps he did.

Ever since she’d bought the house in the picturesque little mountain town of Hudson, NY, she’d felt a tingling sense that it was still occupied by the former owner, who passed away a year prior. She didn’t know much about him, but neighbors had reluctantly offered up small bits of information over the years, when she was feeling social enough to lightly press. He “wasn’t well.” He was “a recluse. A classic hoarder.” His kids – now adults with families of their own – had to hire a trash removal company to clear out the debris of the old man’s life just to list it on the market – as is – before accepting the first lowball offer they received from a savvy local developer.

When she first toured the house, she wasn’t particularly impressed with the exterior. It was hauntingly close to a replica of her childhood home –  a raised ranch built in the 1980s with vinyl white siding. It wasn’t exciting, but it did come with a level of familiarity; of comfort. She knew what to expect inside.

A pair of gratuitous gray columns flanked the front door, which was painted a vivid, unique shade of blue – darker than Robin’s Egg but softer than Cobalt. The color was lively, and thus out of place, but she enjoyed the surprising pop against the otherwise clinical, safe sea of white.

While the exterior of the house was unimpressive, inside, all was fresh and new. The crisp scent of plywood commingling with paint – again, all bright white – and she inhaled as she took in the sight of brand-new stainless-steel appliances that lined the kitchen walls.  The mix of copper and brass light fixtures throughout the living and dining spaces were modern and sleek; a contrast to the view from the lawn.  

Though the four bedrooms were small, they each boasted at least one closet – something she’d dreamt of in Brooklyn. Both levels of the house – the main floor and the basement – were overlaid with parquet flooring in mixed hues of bold and faint gray.

It was new. It was clean. It was hers. 

This is a little piece from my most recent writing class assignment. It feels so good to be writing again! Try it yourself: Title your piece “The Window.” It’s up to you whether this is a figurative or literal window. Lean in on descriptions using multiple senses.

Spoiler Alert: It Could Be Your Thyroid

/ Lauren H. / Leave a comment

I don’t typically share too much personal medical info, but the struggle I’ve had for the past six months was made easier when people shared their own experiences with me. I’m hoping to do the same for someone out there.

I recently was diagnosed (after a series of misdiagnoses) with hypothyroidism, and it took more than 1/2 a year to get there.

About six months ago, as soon as the pandemic hit hard, I slipped into a state I thought I’d never be able to pull myself out of. I was constantly exhausted. Not tired. Not lazy. Exhausted. I’d take time off of work to sleep for days, but I’d never feel rested. I couldn’t get through a day without two naps – one for an hour at lunch and a good 3-4 hour, dead-to-the-world, knocked-out hibernation after work. I’d get up, eat dinner (preferring grab-and-go finger foods I could eat on my way from the kitchen down the hall back to bed, because sitting up straight at the table for a full meal was too draining), and go right back to sleep until morning. I took a week of vacation and spent it sleeping for 7 days straight, awake only long enough each day to take the dogs out and eat three meals. We’d have guests over for a socially distant BBQ and I’d have to leave them in the hands of my host-with-the-most husband so I could go inside and sleep. 

And the depression – my God, the depression. Absolutely nothing brought me joy. I wasn’t excited about anything – even meeting up with family in the midst of the pandemic was a chore. I couldn’t carry on conversations. Even my dogs (AND WE KNOW HOW MUCH I LOVE MY DOGS!!) began feeling more like dutiful responsibilities than enjoyable companions. I just wanted to be alone, zoning out in front of a mindless TV show before inevitably falling into a deep but nonrestorative sleep five minutes later.

Sleep became my safe space. When I was sleeping, I didn’t have the anxiety of trying to answer simple questions I couldn’t find the answers to, or feel the ultimate hopelessness I felt 100% of the time I was awake. For a long time, I chalked it up to unpredictable events just taking their toll on me – grieving the loss of two family members within three weeks, the divided state of the country, the stress of the global pandemic. But it was so much more than that. 

I knew it was beyond just “Covid Fatigue” or “The Five Phases of Grief” when it became undeniable that my mind was slipping. My short term memory was nil. By the time anyone ended a sentence, I’d forgotten how it began – with no idea what subject we were discussing in the moment. I began taking more notes, recording conversations, etc. None of it helped. And it wasn’t just my memory – my entire brain felt demolished. I could not fathom how to begin even the smallest task. Dragging the garbage pails to the end of my 20 foot driveway overwhelmed me – both mentally and physically. Everything I did took 10 times longer than it normally would. Things just stopped getting done. The job was understanding, but only to a point, which only heightened my anxiety and depression. It was the first time I’d ever experienced this completely destructive “brain fog” – which, by the way, sounds way too cute for what it actually was. More accurately, I was mentally incapacitated.  

To top it off, my body ached – alllllllll the time. In fact, shoulder pain was what first made me consult a doctor. My doc and I believed it was simply a strained muscle from lifting a 60 pound dog, until my knees and hips started aching so much that the unbearable pain would wake me out of every deep sleep. I was tested for Covid, Lyme, and initially misdiagnosed with Lupus. Four months and three rounds of bloodwork and ultrasounds later, I was finally diagnosed with Hoshimoto’s Disease (which causes hypothyroidism). 

My husband was growing increasingly worried. He saw me slip into this black hole, just to keep slipping further. He couldn’t pull me out no matter how much he supported me and wanted to help. One day, he reached out to his friend who had recently recovered from thyroid cancer and talked through his concerns about the unwelcome changes he was watching me go through. That friend then immediately reached out to me, simply to show his support and let me know someone understood what I was going through. He said when he was going through his thyroid issues, he didn’t care whether he lived or died, and that unless you’ve been through it, you couldn’t even imagine how it feels. That was the first time I felt that someone “got it.”  He nailed exactly how I’d felt for the last four months.

The ultimate kicker is just how difficult it is to diagnose. Even now, there’s debate between my primary doc and my endocrinologist whether it is, indeed, hypothyroidism. But what I know is this – one week after I was put on Synthroid to regulate my T4 hormone, I was able to get through the day with only minor fatigue. I could go for a walk after work. I didn’t need to nap at lunchtime. It was a MAJOR improvement. But it took another two months to realize and admit my mind still hadn’t caught up to my body. I still couldn’t concentrate, my memory was still crap, and I was getting overly anxious and overly emotional more and more – literally crying (nearly sobbing… like, ugly crying) in the middle of work meetings without understanding why, and operating with a debilitating knot of nervousness in my stomach when interacting with anyone other than my husband.

Almost two weeks ago, I was put on another medication (Liothyronine) to regulate my T3 hormone, and almost immediately I became myself again. I am cheerful, confident, and hopeful. I can let things roll off my back. I’m able to enjoy catching up with friends, hiking, seeing family, and GOD, MY SWEET ANGEL DOGS!! I’m able to get work done, follow conversations, comprehend reading, and know that everything will work out and I will be fine no matter what, no matter when. I am MYSELF again, and I’ve never appreciated being me more than I do right now. 

If you are experiencing any of this, please reach out. Go to doctors and more doctors and get tests upon tests. Advocate for yourself. Don’t let people tell you it’s pandemic-related depression, that you’re bad at your job, shirking responsibilities, being lazy, any of that. This little gland is powerful enough to impact you in ways you may never have imagined. I’ve been told by so many doctors that that the thyroid is often the most underrated function of the body. And while the diagnosis and treatment may be tricky and time-sucking, feeling like yourself is the ultimate goal – you are worth it and the world needs more happy, healthy, rational attitudes! I’m thankful that mine is (albeit slowly) coming back, and I’m here to talk and support anyone who thinks they’re being misdiagnosed or ignored.

Shout out to my doctors, husband, and family for seeing this through with me.

Mother’s Day and What to Say

/ Lauren H. / Leave a comment

Sunday was Mother’s Day. I took to Facebook and Instagram like everyone else I know, posting numerous quotes about moms, pics of my large family celebrating over a beautifully catered lunch, and throwing in a few shots of my dog, who despite the recent complaints of actual human moms, I loosely and only half-jokingly consider myself a parent to. 

And while I do love and cherish my mother, my grandmother, my aunts, and the 9 out of 10 of my girlfriends who have plunged into parenthood, for most of the day I was feeling things I felt I couldn’t – or shouldn’t – post on social media. But when reflecting today, maybe it would have been important for me to do just that.

Scrolling though my Facebook feed and the infinite number of posts identical to mine, I couldn’t help but imagine how the day must be a painful one for so many women, starting with those who planned to be celebrating as mothers themselves.

A handful of women in my life have suffered miscarriages in the last few years, and I’ve seen at close range the sadness of plans for such a joyous and monumental event as welcoming a new baby into the world just vanishing in an instant. These once-expectant mothers suddenly find themselves reconciling the idea that life is about to change completely with the reality that life would indeed remain the same, though missing something significant.

And sure, we’re all there offering support when they make the call to relay the bad news. But then time passes, and though we know there is no set time frame on healing, we (incorrectly) figure that if they want to talk about it, they will. So we stop asking. Or perhaps more accurately, out of fear of saying the wrong thing, we say nothing at all.

Miscarriages are so much more common than they are spoken of – one in four pregnancies ends in miscarriage; a stat I personally found shocking – and perhaps that fear of being a downer, or providing a “reminder” of the painful memory are the main reasons we don’t discuss the experience openly and often. I’d imagine that leaves the women experiencing that pain also feeling lonely and left to deal with their feelings on their own.

I recently read an interview with Sheryl Sandberg in which she discussed feeling not only overwhelming grief after the loss of her husband, but also the most isolated she’d ever felt. When she returned to work, the friends and coworkers she’d always felt connected to looked at her “like a deer in the headlights” and barely spoke to her. They weren’t awful people; they just didn’t know what to say. Sort of like not reaching out to any of these women in my life – though I knew they must be struggling – on Mother’s Day.

And then there are all those who lost their mothers this year. Or last year, or a decade ago. And the women who have fractured mother-daughter relationships. And those who are part of an unconventional family situation that doesn’t include their biological parents. And the women who chose to gave up a child and grapple with that choice. Those who are infertile but have never stopped wanting a baby of their own. I wonder what feelings Mother’s Day brings up for all of them. And the next time I wonder, I want to force myself to ask.

The beauty is that we, as women, are naturally empathetic and nurturing. We are good at lending our ears and our shoulders and our love to other women in need. We are able to endure endless setbacks and overcome disappointments by leaning on each other and sharing our pain with trusted friends. 

So I’m shifting my mindset of this holiday from a day of recognizing the traditional mothers in my life to a celebration of all women, and the imperfect relationships we have with one another. 

And Sunday night, I finally did ask, “how do you feel today?” to a friend who miscarried last year. She told me it wasn’t easy, that it was hitting her hard. And then she cried. I stood there wishing there were something more I could say. So I was honest.

“I’m sorry,” I managed. “I wish there was something more I could say.” She thanked me.

Yes, it was awkward. But it didn’t kill me, and it didn’t kill her. And though it was just a simple exchange of words, for a moment we were sharing the experience, and she wasn’t alone.

Buddhist Tranquility: Unplugged

/ Lauren H. / 1 Comment

Drinking like a ladyIn 2007, I made an appointment with a reputable Manhattan therapist. While I sat in Dr. Andro’s zen-themed waiting room, I listened to the pitter-patter of the electric waterfall and felt at peace. It was the most soothing atmosphere I’d ever stumbled upon. It was a sign. Finally, I was going to be fixed. I daydreamed about what lovely little pills I’d be leaving with that would make me drink less, and maybe even lose weight as well! Oh, what a feminine little lady I was about to become.

Dr. Andro called me into his office and gave me a glance that could be described as “knowing” if only I’d had the ability to understand exactly what he knew. I immediately set off telling him what I was hoping to get out of this session. He cut me off with my least favorite question. “Exactly how much and how often do you drink?”

Even if I’d wanted to be honest, no response would have been truthful. I didn’t know. That was the beauty of drinking as much as I did – I never really had to face the memory of it.

“1-2 glasses of wine a night,” I ventured. He peered at me from under his glasses. He looked me up and down for what felt like an hour. I believe he may have even shaken his head and uttered a “tsk, tsk.”

“Ms. Hand,” Dr. Andro started as he set down his notebook and folded his hands in his lap.

Shit. I knew this talk. Good-bye little pills. Good-bye weight loss. Good-bye lady dreams.

“I cannot treat you, in good conscience, until you can be honest with me. And even then I’d be wary.”

“I don’t understand,” I felt my face get red with rage. “I need help and you’re supposed to help people.”

“I cannot help you, dear, until you’ve helped yourself. I will not see you again until you’ve removed all substances from the equation.” This prick. This fucking prick.

“It’s clear to me that you are dependent on substances, and I can only recommend long-term treatment or perhaps giving a 12-step meeting a try.”

I hated him for delaying the now-dying dream of beautiful prescriptions. “Yeah, ok, I’ll go to a meeting tonight. Now, about those prescriptions….”

“Ms. Hand, that will be $20 to cover the visit today, and please let me know how the meetings works out for you.”

I didn’t give him his money. I told him he didn’t do his job, which was to help me, so I didn’t owe him anything. I added that in fact, he hurt me, so he’d be receiving a bill himself, and hearing from the lawyer we both knew I didn’t have.

I thumped out of his office, through the passé manufactured-Zen waiting room, unplugging his stupid electric water fountain before I left.

Act As If

/ Lauren H. / 7 Comments

Seven years ago, I didn’t believe in God.

I didn’t consider this to be a problem. In fact, I thought that people who believed in God were naive; just nodding little bobble-heads and never questioning what they’d been taught. And for those who not only believed, but relied on this “thing” they felt was a Higher Power observing the human race, judging all of our actions and behavior, forgiving us for our wrongs, and ultimately orchestrating every petty instance to crescendo to One Big Beautiful Plan – well, those people were just fools. Taking the easy way out by claiming “there’s a reason for everything” instead of dealing with the pain of a loved one’s death or the disappointment of not landing a dream job. Weak, I’d think, every time someone force-fed me a fact-lacking line of religious bullcrap.

And then I found myself struggling. At a time in my life when I’d lost the majority of my friends, came to the scary realization that it was time to stop partying, and feeling like an empty human shell without those two constants in my life – childhood buddies and beer.

“Pray,” suggested one of my few remaining friends. “You need to pray.”

I rolled my eyes, swollen with tears over whatever crisis I’d imposed on myself at the time. I grunted a dismissive laugh. “Yeah, OKAY,” channelling the disrespectful pre-teen brat version of myself.

“You don’t pray?” she asked, concerned.

“No, Betty. I don’t pray. I wouldn’t even know who to pray to.”

She stood up – her petite little 5 foot frame not much taller than when she sat – and shuffled across her living room. She reached to retrieve something from the bookcase. Oh God, I thought. Here comes another self-help manual.

Even worse, she came back with a porcelain f*cking angel. Wings, a gold halo, and all.

“Put this on your shelf,” she instructed, “way up high.”

“Uh-huh,” I humored her.

“Do it,” she insisted. “Get up every morning and look up at this angel. Pray to it.”

“You want me to pray to an object.” I just wanted to make sure she was hearing her own absurdity.

“I want you to pray to something,” she corrected me, “until you see that it works.” She put the angel on the table in front of me and took my hands into hers. She looked me in the eyes – hers were warm and gentle. They always twinkled, like she was a real live Disney princess, but Greek. And a smoker.

“ACT. AS. IF.” She tightened her grasp on my hands, as if trying to transfer her faith through the power of touch. “Eventually, you’ll believe.”

She named that angel “Betty 2,” which I found to be hilarious. Her reasoning was if I could talk to her about my problems, I could talk to an extension of her in ceramic form.

The next morning, still miserable, I clopped out of bed and made my way to the bathroom. The figurine protruded from my purse. I giggled, imagining Betty in my bag. I freed it and placed it on my shelf, more out of my sheer amusement of the whole idea. “Hi, Betty 2,” I placated my friend, who was already hounding me “So, did you try it? Did you??” in our future imagined conversation.

And as ridiculous as it felt, I continued this every morning. I told Betty 2 what I was feeling, asked for protection, and eventually began thanking this little inanimate statue for things that I had, by habit, started to become grateful for throughout my week.

I can’t say when I eventually came to believe, but at some point over the course of the time I spent chatting with Betty 2 every morning (which had then increased to every night, as well), I felt a presence of something greater than me. I stopped scoffing at spirituality and abandoned my best reasoning. I knew, because I felt it, that there was a God.

This belief only strengthened – by way of practice – over the years, to a level of trust. And eventually, on my best days, a complete, unabashed reliance on that greater being. An actual relationship with the most important thing in my life – that God I was so adamant didn’t exist.

Today, I received the devastating news that Betty – Betty 1 – passed away. I don’t know what I could possibly write here to express the sadness I feel. It doesn’t seem real yet, though I know that’ll come. She did so much for me – for so many people – and I’ll never be able to thank her for that.

But tonight, when I pray for her family’s peace, I can count her, and her encouragement to find the faith that she had, as one of my many blessings. And I can pray right to Betty 1. No porcelain required.

I’ll miss you, Betty. And thank you to infinity for the greatest gift that anyone has ever given me.

The Power Button

/ Lauren H. / 2 Comments

The definition of insomnia is the inability to fall asleep or stay asleep as long as desired.

That’s it. So simple.

But that’s not the insomnia with which I’ve become familiar over the majority of my adult life. The insomnia I know could be more accurately defined as a raging f*cking bitch.

Here I type with trembling fingers in reach of an untouched mug of coffee. The morning after. The involuntary muscle twitches and a level of neurosis any addict knows well. The sun offensively forcing its way into my kitchen through misaligned cracks in the blinds.

Every line of text stopped short by my inability to remember its intended ending. Jumping with paranoia at the subtle sound of the refrigerator waking from rest mode. This must be how that Coney Island “dancer” feels each time his bundle reaches its end. My insomnia pats me on the toosh as I’m sent off into a day-long stretch of depression and anxiety.

Friends have joked that they’d love to have a sleep disorder; they’d get so much done with just a few more hours in the day. But for me, those added hours are anything but a breeding ground for productivity. They’re packed with crippling, vivid memories of my wild years.

I cringe remembering those early mornings before work – trapped in purgatory between college and adulthood – when the birds chirping outside represented proof that yet again, I’d f*cked up. So many sunrises served as now-or-never moments in which I’d have to decide if showing up at the office was still an option. I’d instinctively run through the excuses I’d exhausted in recent weeks, each becoming more and more outrageous as I reached to justify another potential absence. The list of deceased imaginary relatives was growing in the hundreds. The well of food poisonings, gas leaks and stalkers had been tapped out years ago.

These early morning hours now come with a strong association to an unmanageable life. Outrunning my last lie hand-in-hand with bad decisions. I was perpetually chasing the slightest relief from the pain that lived inside me, like an inoperable cancer. And even though that phase of my life is long behind me, just the reminder of those sleepless nights sends me right back in the thick of it.

I’ve been trying to outpace my sleeplessness for years, not allowing myself to be alone unless I’m unconscious. Peeking out of my window hoping to see light coming from any nearby apartment windows. The bachelor across the street is still watching TV. Ahhh. There’s still time. I’ve got company.

And then he rises from his black leather couch and crosses the room I shouldn’t know so well. With the touch of a power button, I’m on my own again.

My mind hooks onto a thought and it’s off. Doctors have labeled this “the onset of racing thoughts” but that description never rings true. My thoughts keep a steady pendulum beat – perhaps they’re lazy or just uninterested their own speed. No, my thoughts don’t race. But they persevere.

It’s time to review anything in my life that feels a bit “off.” Is she mad at me? Why has she been acting so weird? I must have said goodbye the wrong way. But wait, I ended my last text with multiple explanation points!!!!! That’s the ultimate display of kindness. How could she respond with an unappreciative “K”? Hold on a second – I should be mad at HER. And now I am.

Enter the fears – any and all. Fear that I’m not talented. That I’m ugly, stupid or a joke. The tape starts playing: Former bosses commenting on my lack of intelligence and creativity. Men who defined my role in life with a passive mention of another girl. Learning I was nothing more than a fat kid from various classmates in Junior High.

Miley Cyrus’ tongue.

I grapple for any feeling of hope that can pull me out if this. Comfort, comfort, find some comfort. My dog. Always there for me. Yes, that’s it. My puppy can save me.

How old is he now? Oh my god, could he be… 11? How long do dogs live? 12? SHIT. He’s going to die soon. And I’m not going to have spent enough time with him. Some way to treat a best friend. I suck.

And what about my family? We’ve suffered the blows of untimely deaths. I’m paralyzed by a haunting curiosity: “Who’s next?”

Suddenly I find myself mourning my parents while they’re still alive and well.

My late-night head is a bad neighborhood that no one visits on purpose. Landing here is the punishment of a wrong turn and a lost GPS signal.

But then it’s 5:30 a.m. They’ll all be up soon. They’ll come back to life, joining me again, unaware of the damaging impact that their well-working body clocks have on me. But I’ll forgive them instantly, just happy that they’re back; like a dog who instantly forgets he just spent the better part of the day locked in a crate after pooping on the rug.

The sun is lazily stretching over the houses across the street. The failing brakes of a distant garbage truck assure me that I got through the night; that I don’t have to be alone again.

Until tonight.

In The Red

/ Lauren H. / 2 Comments

A little over a year ago, something happened.

I can rattle off a handful of disappointments that one might think contributed to that “something,” but I’ve done that. Many times. And not even the sum total of all the little setbacks can account for the magnitude of the deficit, glaring at me in red numbers at the end of my metaphorical balance sheet.

I’ve heard others describe depression, and while I’m familiar with feeling low, I’ve never quite identified with the symptoms described. Any time I’ve been so down that just getting out of bed seemed impossible, I could directly trace it to a breakup, a loss, or some major life event that – with the support of others and the passing of weeks or months – drew further from my view as the emotional pain lessened. The desperation never felt permanent.

But this long period of whatever-it-was was different. I didn’t cry everyday. My heart didn’t ache. There wasn’t an acute and identifiable discomfort. I was simply numb. I could go through the motions of getting through the day. I could spend time with friends. I could meet my responsibilities; at least, as well as I did during any given year – the only exceptions to be attributed to my inherent laziness.

What was missing was my sense of self. I was merely a passenger on someone else’s train, slumped on a milk crate in the back of a boxcar, with no interest in where I were headed or when I’d arrive. My purpose was a mystery I had no intent to solve. I had lost my connection to humor and pleasure, though I didn’t really see it.

What I did see is my complete inability to write. To put anything on paper felt disingenuous, like the entire act of communicating was for somebody else – not me. Even when I tried, the ruled lines of my journal became occupied with someone else’s uninspired words; a steaming pile of self-pity and sorrow just plopped onto a page.

And then I changed. Not changed in the sense that I emerged from a cocoon and transformed into a beautiful new being, improved and more enlightened. No – I changed back. I came home. I shuddered open and was suddenly able to feel again. To laugh. To care about others. To listen. To talk.

Desire – the virtuous sort that I was born with, not the self-seeking urges that controlled me in adulthood – regained its roots. And with good timing, watering and sunlight, it bloomed.

Only now that I can write again, I clearly see the miracle, and recognize the irony in having no words to describe it.

 

Closing Doors

/ Lauren H. / Leave a comment

God, I offer myself to Thee to build with me and do with me as Thou wilt.  Relieve me of the bondage of self, so that I may better do Thy will always. May victory over my difficulties bear witness to those I would help of Thy power, Thy love and Thy way of life.

In exchange, I humbly ask that you give me a lobotomy in my sleep.

The human ability to retain memories for an indefinite amount of time is the biggest bunch of bullshit I’ve ever played victim to. Sure, it’s nice to know every now and then the general vicinity in which my car is parked. But the bigger things can go. I’d much prefer to be challenged to recall my life experiences, like items on a grocery list. Retaining only a few top of mind bullet points, just as the words “bread-milk-Funions-bread-milk-Funions” run on a mental hamster wheel while I navigate the aisles.

I’d gladly give up the torture that comes with the association of a feeling with a song. The mention of a name; that faint sweatshirt smell of smoke and Snuggle. An evening drive over the Triboro Bridge just as the sky is undressing to reveal pink-purple hues that trick you into thinking things will always be this good.

I remember one particular night on the Upper East Side, stumbling out of a sports bar to share my last cigarette with a friend. My buzz was killed as she burst into tears at the sight of a hot dog cart parked across the street. See, she’d just ended a relationship, and her ex loved hamburgers, which were “sort of like hot dogs.”

I didn’t get it at the time. I labeled her dramatic and pulled her around the corner where we could finish our smoke in peace, safe from any interruption of street meat.

But I’ve thought about that instance so many times over the last ten years. I get it now. It’s an understanding that only comes once your heart cracks straight through the middle and loses the desire to mend itself.

And here’s the kicker that no one tells you about while you’re out creating good times:

The happiest memories always turn out to be the saddest.

DIY Stitches

/ Lauren H. / 7 Comments

Brandi Shrub was a tall, skinny, and – ok – pretty brunette with teased hair and tattoos, donning lip injections by the time she was 16. Having been left back two or three times, Brandi and I shared the same 8th grade lunch period despite our three year age difference.

An innocent idiot, I made the mistake of having a crush on Rick Serafino, the junior high “Bad Boy” who piqued my interest by being a potential bad influence. He not only did, but dealt drugs, and had more sexual experience at the time than I do today at 43. Way out of my sheltered little league, Rick was the epitome of danger. Already an enthusiast for drama and pain, I had no choice but to fall for him (Rinse and repeat for the rest of my life, by the way).

It was only after I’d let the news of my affection leak that I discovered Brandi liked Rick, too.  I learned this bit of info from the source herself.

“LAUREN,” she yelled on my way out of the cafeteria.

Brandi Shrub knew my name? This realization was both terrifying and exhilarating; my first brush with the feeling I’d grow to love.

“Hi!” I replied, turning to greet her as if I were comfortable.

“You’re disgusting,” she spat as she sauntered past, close enough to intentionally knock my backpack off my shoulder and onto the floor.  “Rick will never go out with a fat pig like you.”

All of the blood in my body drained to my ankles. I braced myself for a hard faint, but nothing happened. I just stood there, shaking, trying to come to terms with the fresh wound that just opened in my soul. 

The comments continued every day for a week. I learned to stare ahead and travel outside of myself as I endured the abuse. I tried to hum loud enough that I couldn’t hear the words being hurled at me, along with paper airplanes, as I’d walk for what felt like hours towards my spot at the lunch table each day.  But even in my attempts to ignore the insults, I grew to understand that I was:

Ugly,

Stupid,

A loser,

A nerd,

Gross with greasy hair, and

A waste of too much space.

Even months after Brandi got bored with me and started torturing someone else, something had changed inside of me – permanently. 

I never spoke to Rick Serafino. He’d walk past me and wink in acknowledgment that he knew what I’d been through. I appreciated his pity. It was the best I could get. It was the most I deserved.

I haven’t seen Brandi since shortly thereafter, but she’s still vaguely present in my life.

I laugh a little too loud, find a joke too funny; I hear her. I walk into a crowded room late, becoming the center of attention; she heckles. A doorman whistles when I walk by; she scoffs. I admit I have feelings for someone; she mocks me. He leans in for a hug and grazes my midsection; she smirks.

She has told me more about myself over time than she ever actually said. She is relentless, wicked, and always there.