If it weren't for the weird double-entendres in this song, this would be my post-breakup anthem.
When I saw my therapist two weeks ago, we spent a lot of time talking about my breakup recovery. How was I doing? How was I feeling? And the big "aha" that came out of the conversation was that I wasn't feeling particularly like myself. I didn't have the drive and motivation and general optimism that I usually do. I didn't feel like doing anything, and everything was out to get me. Smiling was hard, crying was easy. My body didn't feel like my body, either. I'd gained ten pounds since the beginning of the year, and I spent a lot of time worrying about it with a bag of chocolate chips in my hand. I found myself wondering if volleyball was worth the time investment and sun exposure. I even began to question whether my friends really liked me at all, or if they were just pretending...at which point I knew I had a problem. The thing is, I also knew the reason behind it all. My priorities had changed months before when I met B--relationships have a tendency to do that--and now that he was out of the picture and I was hurt, I just couldn't seem to reset.
Well, then school started, and it's nearly impossible to feel lonely and unmotivated once school starts, if only because you have no time or opportunity to do so. Here is a summary of my last six days:
Monday:
Worked until 6, went grocery shopping, cut the grass, made myself food, forced myself to put things away so my house wouldn't be an enormous wreck, realized it was already 9pm, cleaned dishes and went to bed.
Tuesday:
Worked until 5:30, played volleyball until 7:30, ate dinner and read, took a shower, realized it was already 9pm, got in bed
Wednesday:
Worked until 3:45, drove all the way out to the foot of the causeway and did paperwork until my dentist appointment at 5:15, drove home, ate/tidied up until 7:30, went to choir practice, came home, worked on an impossible crossword puzzle for a while before realizing it was well past 9pm, went to bed
Thursday:
Worked until 4:30, drove home and spent the next few hours cleaning my house top to bottom before AirBNB people came the next day, ate dinner, watched a movie, did some internet research on immersion opportunities in Quebec City for next summer, realized it was already 9:30pm, took a shower, threw all remaining personal items into my room, fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow
Friday:
Worked until 5pm, drove home and packed clothes, dealt with the dead rat next to my house, spent an hour at my parents' house doing nothing (probably on facebook, stupid time suck that it is), went to a birthday dinner and watched live music until 11pm, drove back to my parents' house, fell asleep immediately
Saturday:
Slept until 8am, engaged in a talking marathon with my mom until 10:15, played volleyball until 1, changed clothes and ate lunch, went to volleyball training until 6, got a snowball and let myself enjoy it before driving back to my parents' house, showered, ate dinner and talked with my mom, read a couple of articles on my new favorite site Wait But Why, nodded off several times, finally went to sleep at midnight
The last two weeks have been an intensive refresher on the experience of exhaustion and never having enough time for all the things I want/need to do.
I'd venture to say, though, that it's exactly what I needed, emotionally-speaking. Sure, I hate waking up before the crack of dawn every day. Sure, I've already railed against the inefficiencies and injustices of the school environment/education in general more times than I can count. But I also have routine. And I'm also doing something that I love. And I also have fourth graders thanking me every day for such a fun science class and telling me how they can't wait to do the next lab. I have purpose. And man, did I need it.
Not surprisingly, everything else kind of fell in place. I've rediscovered my volleyball ambition. I've dropped five pounds. I have ideas and thoughts and goals and desires again.
I also have "that thing" again, whatever it's called. Optimism? Social fluency? Flirtatious amiability? You know, that thing when guys pay attention to you, and you don't scoff in their proverbial faces and mentally accuse them of being liars and fakes before you really get to know them? When they like you, and you're actually nice to them back? That happened for the first time last Saturday, when I was stationed in the front of KIPP Renaissance High School and given the job of redirecting other volunteers to the back for check-in.
Not long after I first sat down on the front steps of the school--my station as Volunteer Redirector--a group of four people about my age walked by in green shirts with signs in their hands. I wished them hello--feeling particularly friendly in the glow of my volunteer helpfulness--and the men in the group and I exchanged a few pieces of wit before they walked out of earshot.
Me: Good morning!
Man 1: You're starting the 5K from here? Seems kind of like cheating.
Me: Oh no, I'm not in the race. Just volunteering.
Man 2: And representing kickball, I see.
(I was wearing a kickball shirt)
Me: Yeah, even though I don't play anymore.
Man 2: That's a bummer.
Man 1: It's because you're in the Hall of Fame now, right?
Me: Yep, retired at my peak.
They kept walking, and I thought well that was nice! It's going to be fun sitting here and talking to people!
I continued to direct volunteers to the back of the school and wish people passing by a good morning. In between, I would notice small things about the area around me: the differences between the school I sat in front of and the one across the street. The way the houses looked. The cop cars parked at every intersection, blocking off the street in anticipation of the road race. The man in the green shirt on the sidewalk, walking back towards me.
M: Those are pretty cool shades.
Me: Yeah, thanks. Five bucks at Walgreens.
I thought for sure it was a passing comment--he'd walked by once before--but then he stuck around. For an hour. There, in front of the school steps, he told me about his job and the nearby city he lived in. We talked about science and sports and all kinds of things, only taking a break when volunteers walked up, and when the 5K passed and he held up his sign and cheered them on. The race ended, and he stayed. And we talked more. In fact, he only left after I was relieved of my duties and asked to come help with something else inside the school.
I hopped down from the ledge I was sitting on, shook his hand and told him my name, and he told me his. I paused, to see if he would say anything else, and when he didn't, I said something to the effect of It was a pleasure talking to you this morning. Thanks for keeping me company. Let me know next time you're at Coconut Beach. He echoed my sentiments, and when he said nothing else, I walked off, feeling like this:
Several Facebook messages later, I still feel that way. Of course, he lives 30-45 minutes away and may or may not have a girlfriend (the Facebook pictures are inconclusive), so maybe that's why he hasn't stepped up. Or maybe he just liked talking to me and that's it...which I'm okay with. Honestly, it was just nice to talk to a man and not get annoyed by everything he said or did.
Baby steps.
The long conversation with the guy who didn't annoy me wasn't my only pleasant or entertaining interaction for the day. I also very much enjoyed this one instance that happened when an old man who was missing a few teeth walked past me on the sidewalk and wished me a good morning:
As if to echo this sentiment, a man began to yell loudly on a nearby corner towards the end of my time on the steps. I had seen him across the street earlier that morning, but he hadn't been yelling loud enough or clearly enough until now for me to make out what he said.
Me: Good morning!
Man 1: You're starting the 5K from here? Seems kind of like cheating.
Me: Oh no, I'm not in the race. Just volunteering.
Man 2: And representing kickball, I see.
(I was wearing a kickball shirt)
Me: Yeah, even though I don't play anymore.
Man 2: That's a bummer.
Man 1: It's because you're in the Hall of Fame now, right?
Me: Yep, retired at my peak.
They kept walking, and I thought well that was nice! It's going to be fun sitting here and talking to people!
I continued to direct volunteers to the back of the school and wish people passing by a good morning. In between, I would notice small things about the area around me: the differences between the school I sat in front of and the one across the street. The way the houses looked. The cop cars parked at every intersection, blocking off the street in anticipation of the road race. The man in the green shirt on the sidewalk, walking back towards me.
M: Those are pretty cool shades.
Me: Yeah, thanks. Five bucks at Walgreens.
I thought for sure it was a passing comment--he'd walked by once before--but then he stuck around. For an hour. There, in front of the school steps, he told me about his job and the nearby city he lived in. We talked about science and sports and all kinds of things, only taking a break when volunteers walked up, and when the 5K passed and he held up his sign and cheered them on. The race ended, and he stayed. And we talked more. In fact, he only left after I was relieved of my duties and asked to come help with something else inside the school.
I hopped down from the ledge I was sitting on, shook his hand and told him my name, and he told me his. I paused, to see if he would say anything else, and when he didn't, I said something to the effect of It was a pleasure talking to you this morning. Thanks for keeping me company. Let me know next time you're at Coconut Beach. He echoed my sentiments, and when he said nothing else, I walked off, feeling like this:
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[Please note that I do not condone the use of single letters to replace words]
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Several Facebook messages later, I still feel that way. Of course, he lives 30-45 minutes away and may or may not have a girlfriend (the Facebook pictures are inconclusive), so maybe that's why he hasn't stepped up. Or maybe he just liked talking to me and that's it...which I'm okay with. Honestly, it was just nice to talk to a man and not get annoyed by everything he said or did.
Baby steps.
The long conversation with the guy who didn't annoy me wasn't my only pleasant or entertaining interaction for the day. I also very much enjoyed this one instance that happened when an old man who was missing a few teeth walked past me on the sidewalk and wished me a good morning:
Old Man: Good morning.
Me: Good morning! How are you doing?
Old Man: I'm doing alright. You know what? For your hospitality, I'm going to tell you a riddle.
Me: Okay. Sounds good.
Old Man: What goes around the world, stays in the corner, and never falls?
Me: [Thinks about it] I have no idea.
Old Man: A 25 cent stamp! ...Okay, now you gotta tell the next person you talk to.
[At this very moment, a man in his early twenties walks up to the school, looking lost and uncomfortable]
Me: Hi, are you here to volunteer?
Volunteer: Yes.
Old Man (a few yards away): Tell him the riddle!
Me: Okay, you need to check in on the other side of the school, but before you go, I have a riddle for you.
Volunteer (seeming even more uncomfortable): Okay...
Me: What goes around the world, stays in the corner,...
Old Man (still a few yards away): But never falls!
Me: ...but never falls?
Volunteer (desperately wishing this wasn't happening): I don't know. What?
Me: A stamp.
Old Man: A 25 cent stamp!
Volunteer: Okay. Around the back, you said?
Me: Yes, you'll see the open doors.
There was the hilarious moment when I tried to tell the principal how to get into the school, not realizing he was the principal.
There was the middle-aged man running the 5K that I exchanged pleasantries with from afar. And the volunteers that I talked to. And the people just walking past that wished me a good morning, too.
And during all this time, the thought of Katrina hung in the air, as things are apt to do on their anniversaries. Between conversations, I pondered the wonder of New Orleans and the challenges of living here. The beauty of a place that is wholly unique, and the frustration of a city that cannot seem to get it right.
Me: Yes, you'll see the open doors.
There was the hilarious moment when I tried to tell the principal how to get into the school, not realizing he was the principal.
There was the middle-aged man running the 5K that I exchanged pleasantries with from afar. And the volunteers that I talked to. And the people just walking past that wished me a good morning, too.
And during all this time, the thought of Katrina hung in the air, as things are apt to do on their anniversaries. Between conversations, I pondered the wonder of New Orleans and the challenges of living here. The beauty of a place that is wholly unique, and the frustration of a city that cannot seem to get it right.
As if to echo this sentiment, a man began to yell loudly on a nearby corner towards the end of my time on the steps. I had seen him across the street earlier that morning, but he hadn't been yelling loud enough or clearly enough until now for me to make out what he said.
WHERE IS YOUR HUSBAND? BITCH, GIVE ME MY LAWNMOWER!
Minutes later, I felt myself get nervous as he began to walk on the sidewalk in my direction. I wasn't sure if he'd yell at me the way he'd seemed to yell at runners earlier. But as he walked by, I saw that he wasn't reacting to those around him, he was speaking to some invisible person beside him, and I realized the intensity of his condition, his painful disengagement from reality. The painful reality of mental health in this city.
Where is your husband? I don't want to talk to you. I need that lawnmower. Where is your husband? Tell him to get out here.
And as he reached the opposite corner of the block, continuing down the street past me--a busy street in a turning neighborhood with high housing prices and renovations everywhere--I thought of the phrase: Not all that glitters is gold.
Yes, our city has grown and changed in significant ways over the last ten years, but there are systemic problems that we can't seem to shake. Our education system is better, but most people who can afford private school choose it because most public schools are still pretty terrible. Our infrastructure has been under construction in major ways, but we still have serious potholes, unreliable public transportation, drainage issues, frequent water boil advisories, and fire and police departments that are underfunded and stretched thin. Our crime has to be the same, if not worse. Our housing prices are astronomical, and the city is beginning to resemble more and more the set up of New York and European cities: only the people who can afford to live in the city live here. And there is blight. And corruption. And politics for politics sake. Even our football team, the glimmer of hope after the storm, has returned to its pre-Katrina dysfunctionality. This is our year, they say, but I'm getting jaded now. We're going to be terrible again this year, I say; at least I won't have to give up my Sundays.
I am not hating on New Orleans as a place. It is my home. It is the place where my heart resides. There is no other city or town or rural establishment in the world that rivals New Orleans in my eyes. I am simply acknowledging it's flaws and refuting the biased media attention that only focuses on the positive side of post-Katrina rebuilding. The process has not been black and white. The rebuilding has come with good and bad. Some things have changed for the better, some for the worse. Some have not changed at all.
Last night, I sat with my mother at the dining room table, just the two of us, and we talked for more than an hour about anything and everything. At one point, she asked me about my shirt--the one I got volunteering last weekend--and we talked about the first time that I came back to New Orleans after the storm. It was Thanksgiving. Mom picked me up from the airport, and we drove the ten miles down the interstate in mostly silence, observing the blue tarps on the roofs, the chunks of this hotel and that strip mall missing. The silence and inactivity. And then we crossed the parish line and got off at the West End exit, where I was met with two overwhelming sights. First, on my left, the mound of trash and trees and debris piled stories-high on the wide neutral ground next to the road. And second, on my right, the empty and battered houses that stood--or perhaps more accurately, leaned--along the boulevard. "What's that stuff wrapped around the houses?" I asked. "Oh baby," my mom said, "that's the water line." "Oh no," I gasped. And I spent the next ten minutes of our drive with my hands over my eyes. I remember it clearly. It was like seeing a loved one in an open casket at a funeral. You miss the way things used to be; you can't bear what they've become.
At that point in our present-day conversation, my mom and I both had red-rimmed eyes. My voice wavered.
Because that storm was hard for everyone involved. For me, it was mostly survivor guilt and helplessness. My family's house wasn't flooded, and I didn't have to evacuate or live in the remains of the city when people were let back in because I was still in college. Instead, I sat in my room in Virginia, flipping through slideshows on news sites and trying to reach my parents and crying. And I felt guilty for even crying. What was my pain compared to the people who lost everything? Who lost every possession they had? Who, in a time before digital was the norm, lost every picture they'd taken? Who lost their cars? Who lost their homes? Who lost their family and friends, to evacuation or death? What was a little heartache when I'd lost so little of what mattered?
I have tried to write about Katrina before. In many ways, I wished I'd powered through the tears ten years ago, so that I'd have a record now of how things had really been then, not some unreliable memory in the corner of my mind. But it is, and continues to be, the most painful experience I've ever had, and writing about it even ten years later still brings tears to my eyes. To this day, I cannot put into words what should be said. I cannot do it--this great elephant in our lives--justice. I envy those who can.
Last Saturday night, my friends and I went out to a bar not far from the city to celebrate a birthday with some karaoke. While I am a decent singer, I have never been particularly fond of karaoke, mostly because I don't know what to sing, and I worry I've forgotten how to sing the songs I choose. So basically, fear. But I'd said I would sing, so I chose two songs that, in retrospect, perhaps speak to this moment in my life: six weeks after B, ten years after the storm. And I'll leave you with these songs, reminders of days past and hope for days to come.
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