© T.H. Warrior – Tender Hearted Warriors
– S.S.P. & E.L.C.
It hadn’t been even 24 hours since I had arrived in the greatest city in the world: The Big Apple. I had just been admitted to Colombia University. With my coffee in one hand and croissant in the other, I was sitting on a bench in the Morningside Park near the campus, two streets away from my apartment. The Morning breeze was taking me on a daydream-like journey I was about to embark on when the real-life-literal meaning of day dream appeared right in front of me. Tall, handsome, broad shoulders, arms so strong that could pick up all 5 foot 10 of me like a feather, dark hair with ocean blue eyes, in a navy blue uniform that said NPD, he was just… perfect.
I smoothly took my phone out, trying to take a picture of him. I managed to capture his physical beauty but not his magnificent presence; was just about to zoom in and celebrate the mission accomplished by sending the picture to my best friend in Portland when a cold, firm hand tapped me on the shoulder.
-“Miss, may I ask you why you have a picture of my colleague on your phone?” asked the other walking example of my daydream.
-“Um…” was all I could make out of my thoughts towards this gorgeous man.
-“Miss, please delete the picture.”
-“Um…. ok.” At least I had put two letters together that made sense this time, was what I thought to myself.
-“Also from your deleted folder, please.”
-“Oh, you’re good.” I said with a smirky tone, having managed to pull myself together a bit.
-“You don’t have to be a genius to know that. Thank you, ma’am.”
As the conversation was coming to an end and I could feel his presence getting ready to leave for good, I could remember all the Ted Talks I had watched and seminars I’d attended on women waiting all their lives to be carried by men, to be asked out by men, to never allowing themselves to have the courage to take any initiatives towards men. Sitting alone at a bar with our girlfriends, rejecting men one after another, was known as cool. Never showing what or who we liked was considered as powerful. I was about to break all of these taboos for the first time ever in my life.
-“You’re welcome, Officer Houston. I myself am from Texas too. I was born in Michigan; we moved to Beckville when I was little… But I don’t hear the accent, though, you mind if I ask why?
-“It’s actually How-sten” and is referring to the major street in Manhattan, which runs from east to west. It is named after William Houstoun, the American lawyer back in the 18th century, whose last name could also be spelled as Houston, as of Houston, Texas. And because Houston Street is such a major street in Manhattan, it became a boundary of prominent areas in New York City and a popular point of reference. Now you could guess what SoHo and NoHo stand for,” said that magnificent force of a man.
I remember when I was three, my dad took me to a speech therapist. He thought I couldn’t talk. After a few sessions, the therapist told my dad something that is both a dream and a nightmare to every 21-year-old-single parent: “Your daughter can talk. She chooses not to.”
As a child, I was shy, permanently afraid of something, awkward, I didn’t talk much, and was very hard to read.
As I grew up, I was still the same person inside but had beautifully mastered the art of putting different masks in different life situations. I had even named my characters. At work, I was Ann; at school, I was Michelle; within me, I was me. I was serious yet welcoming, carried my model-like posture with such inimitable confidence, my melodic calm voice and tone was music to every man’s ear. I was a catch.
Inside: I was faking it.
Double-crossing every thought that ever passed my mind. Double-checking everything I said or did, doubting my existence whenever I thanked a waiter for taking my order. I have been living with this anxiety for as long as I could remember.
I finally took the liberty of spelling those terrifying words out:
-“Well, maybe you could show me this Houston street whenever you find the time. I have a couple of classes, and then I’m done for the day.”
-“You’re new in town?”
-“I literally got here 24 hours ago.”
-“Do you live nearby? Wait, don’t tell me. And don’t tell anyone you just met where you live. I’ll see you here tonight at 7?”
-“Sounds like a plan, officer. “
Then with what that felt like the touch of an angle, firm as a rock, he shook my hand and said:
-“I’m John.”
Before I knew it, four years passed. One day, I found myself in the apartment we shared, packed my life in a suitcase, laid the keys on the kitchen table, didn’t even leave a note, and I left.
It didn’t take that long when I realized the scope of the damage I’d done. I was already in another country, living another life.
John and I never saw each other again. I tried to apologize, but I knew the best apology I could give him was to disappear for good. Angry people feel self-righteous. They forget better and faster.
Every human being goes through ups and downs during their life, a path that may have been bitter and hateful, and if they look back, they see nothing but black. Something we do forget, is that without those black and whites, all colors would look gray because there would be no extreme spectrum to compare them to.
Dark and painful memories could either pull us deeper and deeper into a rabbit hole or could prevent us from ever again falling into one.
These were on my mind when a beautifully rude interruption happened: On a cozy May night, as I was taking a long walk down my favorite boulevard in Berlin, the scent of Matthiola, a beautiful spring flower, took me 18 years back…
My dad used to put them above my bed to piss off the mosquitos. As lovely as the scent was to humans, it was every insects’ worst definition of hell.
-“Turn off the light, or I will break it for you.” Said, my dad.
-“Sit with me for a while; I cannot sleep.”
-“I’m exhausted, honey, so are you. Please. Close your eyes, and you’ll fall asleep.”
I always envied how easily he’d go back to sleep. He’d start snoring before his head even reached the pillow.
Street lights in Charlottenburg took me back to that exact summer night in Texas. I remembered why I couldn’t sleep that night.
I had a talk with our school college adviser about my future. I was the youngest in our school, on her way to college.
I remember I was rebuilding the whole dialogue in my head:
“Oh Jesus, that, I shouldn’t have said…
That one had an envious overtone…
Why the hell would you say that?? What would she think?? She’s probably thinking I’m some sort of a weirdo, and at best, I’d get into a community college in North Dakota.”
And yet again, I was taking that long walk, 18 years later, after meeting with this editor. Thinking the same things:
“Was my perfume too punchy?
Oh jeez, why on earth did I wear that blouse??
Well, forget it. He’s not gonna give me that column. At best, I’m gonna get footnoted under the Sunday crossword puzzles….”
For as long as I could remember, I was covered with this filthy sense of self-doubt. The nights before I’d found out I’d score an A in an exam, I had already made my peace with having to repeat that exam.
After a first date I had really enjoyed, I would write in my Iphone’s note: “It’s ok. The right one will find you.” And then, I’d get a “good morning beautiful” text on my phone the next morning.
Where was this coming from?
How come everyone could see something in me but me?
The ugly truth is that I was not the only one who was getting hurt by this.
I’d rejected a life with the man of my dreams because I believed I did not deserve him. I’d put my baggage down his street without being open to open it. And I left in the most unspeakably cruel way.
I’d left a wonderfully balanced life behind because I was feeling guilty for having it.
I’d hurt others.
I was hurting me…
-“DIE DAMME!!!!,” Shouted the most badass German police officer.
-“I’m so sorry, I did not see the light.”
He was automatically more empathetic as he heard the accent and realized I did not speak the language.
-“Watch out for the lights, or you’re gonna get yourself killed!”
-“Thank you, officer; I’m sorry.”
As I was catching my breath after that near-death-experience I realized something:
What was I good at, point-blank?
Passing things. Getting things done. I had been an achiever all my life.
Why did I ever get any job in my life?
Why did I always get called back after first dates? First interviews?
Why would any guy call someone they didn’t fancy the next day?
How would I possibly pass all few thousands of exams I took in my life if I wasn’t smart enough?
Was I not nervous before writing every student’s nightmare, anatomy 3?
Was I not nervous before my first job interview?
Was I not nervous before my first date with John, when I showed up in jeans, sneakers, and a Shaquille O’Neal jersey?
How did I get through it? How did I fake it? How did I digest that mountain size of an anxiety before even having swallowed it?
My goals were bigger than my anxiety.
My dreams were larger than my doubts.
My vision was brighter than my inner blur.
And that’s when I realized:
By giving it a name, a shape, and a body, I would not stop this fear but scale it.
What baggage? What anxiety? What for?
I was something!
I was a catch!
I was the shit!
There was no baggage to open unless I wanted there to be one.
There was no fear to overcome unless I would accept the permanent damage that it had done to me.
Was I scarred? Yes.
Was I scarred for life? Fuck no!
I was not going to allow a childhood disability to be my future reality.
It was about time to trust the records, the milestones, the achievements, all those mountains I’d climbed.
I was high on this ego-booster of a realization when I got home, and the blouse I’d wear today to that meeting with that editor kept staring at me.
And then everything got dark. I could not take any more of this four hours-worth of mind fuck anymore.
I burst into tears.
I cried my eyes out until I fell asleep on my couch.
Then I woke up to this E-mail on my phone:
“Dear Ms. Peterson,
We are happy to inform you that you have been chosen as the weekly columnist in our magazine. Enclosed we have sent you the details together with the offer. Should you have any questions, please do not hesitate to contact my team or me in Cc.
We cannot wait to have you on board.
Warmest regards…”
…
This time I woke up. I really woke up.
I was among the lucky ones.
Maybe a part of me knew how good I was. And that part had died long past my memory, gathering dust as the years of my life passed.
I took it out.
Wiped it off.
Gave it a hug,
And never let go.