I didn't know I needed to get out, experience something ordinary or at least something lighter than the Concrete City Madhouse. Nightly I dreamed of fresh air and open spaces and neighbors unable to hear through the walls. Maybe that should have been a clue.
It was impossible to stroll, especially in the evening. I couldn't imagine walking without my entire body listening, without constantly knowing where to run, without worrying that I wouldn't have time to scream. But I didn't carry a ready weapon because that would mean "they" were wining. Or maybe it was because I started wishing something would happen. I don't think I'm alone in this. You live with a palpable fear long enough, you get to where you just wish for it because at least then it would be done. You can deal with it and move on. The worry and fear, now justified, could leave. You - I - would be liberated from that specter.
I know this train of thought is bullshit. And I tried to change my thoughts. I've had many conversations with myself. How could violence reduce fear? Why am I casting myself as this passive victim? Why can't you even see yourself as a survivor in this made-for-TV movie you play in your head? My answer was constantly, "I don't know."
When the opportunity to leave the Madhouse happened, it was without anything I would define as a decision. I followed a lover who moved on a few months later. I remained.
The air here is crisp and loves filling a person's lungs. Grey is not the dominant color motif. It is still a city, and I still don't own a car, but I can see over the buildings to the world beyond its borders. I can look people in the eyes. My fears are not solved, but they finally do not infect my entire life. For the first time in my adult life, I call my location home.
I was campaigning in New Hampshire for John Edwards last year. My group met this amazing woman who ran a local diner. She had lived in New York City and had moved with her family soon(ish) after the Stonewall Riots. This monologue/story uses that bit of information as the starting point. I have images of the larger story this may become, but I need to let it grow in my brain for a bit longer.
It was impossible to stroll, especially in the evening. I couldn't imagine walking without my entire body listening, without constantly knowing where to run, without worrying that I wouldn't have time to scream. But I didn't carry a ready weapon because that would mean "they" were wining. Or maybe it was because I started wishing something would happen. I don't think I'm alone in this. You live with a palpable fear long enough, you get to where you just wish for it because at least then it would be done. You can deal with it and move on. The worry and fear, now justified, could leave. You - I - would be liberated from that specter.
I know this train of thought is bullshit. And I tried to change my thoughts. I've had many conversations with myself. How could violence reduce fear? Why am I casting myself as this passive victim? Why can't you even see yourself as a survivor in this made-for-TV movie you play in your head? My answer was constantly, "I don't know."
When the opportunity to leave the Madhouse happened, it was without anything I would define as a decision. I followed a lover who moved on a few months later. I remained.
The air here is crisp and loves filling a person's lungs. Grey is not the dominant color motif. It is still a city, and I still don't own a car, but I can see over the buildings to the world beyond its borders. I can look people in the eyes. My fears are not solved, but they finally do not infect my entire life. For the first time in my adult life, I call my location home.
I was campaigning in New Hampshire for John Edwards last year. My group met this amazing woman who ran a local diner. She had lived in New York City and had moved with her family soon(ish) after the Stonewall Riots. This monologue/story uses that bit of information as the starting point. I have images of the larger story this may become, but I need to let it grow in my brain for a bit longer.
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