Page 71 of Late Bloomer
The hunger of it hurts, shooting panic through me. And medicating myself with nicotine and weed and alcohol is the easiest way to satiate it.
I used to indulge it without a second thought—taking so much, enough, that I’d feel like I got to a very human baseline, everyone else’s normal. But the problem with a quick fix like drinks or cigarettes is how fast the numbness wears off. The shitty taste in your mouth from your own disappointment, the achy shame that you can’t regulate yourself like everyone around you can. The vicious loop of self-sabotage.
For the most part, I push all this buzzing, itching need through my hands. Into my art. My racing thoughts vibrating through me and out to the tip of my brush or my fingers molding clay. Little bits of me and all this chaos in my brain live in every piece I’ve created. Art is the vice I let myself chase.
But right now, the art isn’t coming. I’m blocked and frustrated and want to pull my (atrocious) hair out.
Slowly, I slide my keys along the top of my dresser, playing with them, listening to their tinkle as I twirl the ring around my finger.
Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to run to the store. I’ll pick up some junk food. Maybe even a block of good cheese. A dip and some pretzels.
And a bottle of wine… No more than two.
I’ll spread them out. Totally acceptable.
I grip my keys firmly, the metal teeth digging into mypalm, ready to turn and head down the stairs, straight to my car before the shame can catch me.
But just as I move to take a step, the clouds outside the window shift, a rectangular shaft of sun slicing through the pane, straight to the mirror.
The room is dipped in gold, burnished light dripping down the walls.
And something about it locks my ankles in place and lifts my chin to the light. To the window. It’s bright and shimmering and turns something over in my chest, dislodges a stone and lets the flood rush out.
Sometimes I hate myself. I hate my meekness and my boldness. I hate my fear and my audacity to try. Sometimes the hate digs its roots in so deep, it feels like itisme.
I hate that hate. I have endless grace for everyone in the world, but none for myself. Why am I not allowed to make mistakes? Why does my compassion stretch to strangers but stop at my own front door?
A few silly tears fall down my cheeks. And it’s all so ridiculous because why am I crying? Why am I feeling so much and all at once? All I know is that life is hard and it’s lonely and feelings are sharp and big and somehow we’re supposed to spend every day of our life facing them.
With the sunlight streaming through my room, I decide, at least for this moment, to shed that self-loathing, lift its claws from around my throat.
I march to the window, throwing it open as far as it will go.The warmth of the day curls around me, coaxing me outside with its softness.
I raise my face to the sun, drowning in the light seeping through my closed eyelids, letting the heat kiss my cheeks. After a few deep breaths, in and out, I smile, opening my eyes.
It takes me a few moments of blinking and adjusting to the brightness, but I eventually see Pepper in the distance, long limbs extended as she pulls a bag of soil toward a plot of flowers.
And my feet are no longer my own; they carry me down the stairs in a flurry of stomps and squeaks, across the lawn, until I’m running barefoot toward her.
By the time I make it to her, I’m out of breath, panting as she stares at me with a frightened expression.
It’s probably for the best I can’t breathe; in my rush to reach her, I didn’t gather a plan of what I want to say.
“What did you do to your hair?” she finally asks, eyes wide and fixed on my forehead.
“Honestly, Pepper, I would think you’d be used to the synthetic colors by now,” I wheeze.
“I mean… I am. Kind of. But this is…”
“Super cute and approachable?”
“I was going to say a bold choice.” She takes a step closer to me. “It looks like a monstera leaf.”
“Sweet of you. Thanks,” I say with a grimace, fluffing up the chin-length strands.
“What prompted this… decision?” she asks, reaching out and following a green strand to its end.
“Doesn’t matter.” I catch her wrist. I grip her hand between both of mine, bringing it to the center of my chest.
