Dancing on my Pit
Joy and some stories bopping along with it.
Y’all. I’ve literally been dancing home this week.
All along the 8 block walk between the train and my house, lit by streetlamps, headlights, and the fluorescents spilling out of bodegas and laundromats, I have been sliding, skipping, grooving, step touching to the beat with a wobbly neck and pursed lips, bouncing my shoulders, punching the air, swaying my hips, and spinning under my dog’s leash while he cocks his head. I alternate between mouthing the words through a can’t-stop-won’t-stop grin and singing a capella to my fellow pedestrians. They don’t even look up - this is New York City, bitch.
This girl, the girl who was so deep in her pit less than a month ago that she couldn’t see the way out is dancing.
A love song comes on and my finger hovers over the skip again. The lyrics start to tug at the corners of my mouth, at the little strings that package my heart - the lover is me. Glad I went through all of this to find you.
Hello, love.
I know that I go through cycles in my life. I know that I have pulled myself out of the pit before. I know that I will likely fall in again.
But I have never pulled myself out of the pit by loving myself before. I have pulled myself out with ambition, with determination, with frustration, with travel and other temporary coping mechanisms, but never with total compassion. I have never turned around and offered my hand down to make sure every part of me climbed out with me. I have never done it while feeling every step and every misstep, without numbing the pain in order to keep moving. I have never done it quite so whole. Bandaged but whole.
I got out quicker this time because the ladder rungs had already been placed and stabilized through trial and error over the last year. I feel hopeful that I can do it with a little more agility, a little more faith, next time.
It starts with a choice. Depression is not a choice, it's a fucking curse, but getting out is always a choice. It has to be. It's not easy. It’s dark and it’s cold and it’s safe in the pit. Our brains are more interested in safety, in the familiar, than they are in change, or even in happiness. They don't want us to know there's a different choice we can make. You have to say, I am in charge and I want to try. I know there is something else for me at the top of this ladder.
Remembering the kid in me helps me choose to try. Remembering I’m worth it helps me to try.
My lowest ladder rungs are small habits. I started taking my meds again, I started eating small breakfast so I could take my meds without upsetting my tummy. I stretched with my dog as I got out of bed and I gave him an extra snuggle. I drank water. I regulated my nervous system.
I felt big feelings and let myself keep feeling them. I did my very best not to shame or guilt or judge myself. I tried to be gentle and forgiving and understanding and patient (with many reminders from friends). I rested when I was tired, which was a lot. I stopped drinking so I could feel feel feel. I rode the waves. I’m riding the waves.
I tried to love every part of me, even the hard parts, the sad parts. I decided that acceptance is not just accepting the thing that happened, but also accepting that different parts of me might feel different ways about it and that's okay.
I went to work.
I went to therapy.
I reached out to friends and family. I let them care for me and assure me.
I cultivated calm. I took deep breaths. I moved my hand in little circles on my own chest. I held my hand. I wrapped my arms around me. I made nightly tea.
I stopped to take a picture of a sunrise while walking the dog.
I fed myself. At first, with apps on my phone and then eventually I peeled myself off of the couch and cooked food. (Anyone want a hello fresh free box promo?)
I operated from love instead anger or fear or insecurity. And I felt proud of who I was when I did.
I kept reaching out to friends, to check on them, to send memes, to tell them how very much I love them, to invite them over for dinner. They came.
I got up a little earlier to pack my lunch for work, to write in a journal in the dark with sleep still in my eyes. I started a class.
I played. I remembered the things little me liked to do and did them. I spread paper on the floor. I drew. I brainstormed. I wrote little poems. I played my keyboard. I did a puzzle. I watched my favorite show. I ate cookies.
I started looking forward instead of at my shoes. I dreamed a future that excited me and started taking steps towards it, eyes focused up ahead.
I put on my headphones. I found a new song. And I danced.
As I was typing this (backstage as another fashion show blared on), a lady stagehand (they do exist!) with a fiery mess of hair I’m obsessed with came in after setting up some power in hair and makeup.
“All these 23 year old models in there talking, I just told them to not have sex. To give all of that to themselves. I’m almost double their age, not quite, but that’s the advice I’d give 23 year old me… love you. Don’t give it away. Don’t even look at anyone else. We spend so much time and energy giving to other people, people we date, doing what they want, trying to make them happy, and we forget about us. And then we’re this age and like… who am I?”
I feel like a completely different person than I was two years ago, maybe even one year ago. Or maybe not different, but clearer, calmer, stripped down. Mostly free of muck.
A few years ago, a series of wonderful people I knew died too soon. They were the best people. Everyone talked about how they were kind and smart and brightened every room. At their funerals and on their social media, their families got to meet a world full of strangers who were each touched in some way by their existence.
Every time it happened, a part of me whispered through the tears, you know that’s not what people would say about you if you died. Sure, your family and close friends might be sad, but acquaintances and even some people you are close to would probably shrug their shoulders. Maybe they’d even sigh with relief. “Who? Oh that storm of a girl? She probably gave herself a heart attack at 30.”
I have said some really mean things to myself.
But yesterday, while floating around a job site that I probably would have been grumbling around two years ago, I realized I don’t feel that way anymore. I could feel the energy I was putting in the room and I could feel how I was changing it and affecting the people around me. I was in love with the everyone in that room. I could feel myself exuding good. I think anyone who came across me that day would say that I made it better to be there. I think they'd say something nice about me if I died.
I told my therapist this and she smiled. To her it was not a revelation about the energy I was giving other people or how other people saw me at all.
“You like yourself more.”
Last week a guy on my crew who is probably in his 60s told me I was the most mellow lighting guy -”I mean, lighting person”- that he has ever met.
It felt like such a huge and unexpected win. It felt like air.
This morning on the train when I opened a page to write, I asked love what she had to say. Here's her letter to me. To you.
Good morning, I love you. Did you see the way Cooper looked at us this morning? Did you see the way the sun came in the curtains? And your Instagram inbox of memes and reactions? Do you remember that hug from your friend yesterday? Remember the smiles you sent and the smiles you created? The giggles? The stories people started to tell when you told them you write about mental health? The vulnerability? Did you see looks on their faces as they listened to each other? This is your life. Isn't it beautiful? Take a breath.
I packed your headphones so you don’t have to listen to commuters chew or the train screech and also so you can listen to songs that make your toes tap and your grin crack open until you're dancing. I packed you some snacks and breakfast. I hope they fill your belly and assure you that you are loved. I hope you feel taken care of. I forgot to pack a note. Next time I'll pack a note. You deserve love letters in your lunch and sitting in the crook of your favorite tree.
And so here one is. I love you I love you I love you. Waking up as you, in this body, with this brain and this heart, every morning is a gift. This body has walked up mountains and satisfied lovers and pushed through neglect. This brain has kept you alive at all costs. Even when it spirals, at the center of the tornado, here I am. I love how you see beauty in the world. I love your dreams (no, they’re not silly; they’re gorgeous). I love your heart. I see your heart. I see how it's been battered, how it still beats. How it beats louder. I see your silliness. I love your play. I love your strength and I love your softness. I love that you think too much. I love that you love hard enough to get hurt. I love that you want to get back up. I see how hard you’re trying. It’s not easy. You’re doing a good job.
Thank you for taking time to rest. For letting every part feel even when it’s hard and confusing. Thank you for figuring out how to find calm, for breathing, for listening to your body. Thank you for showing up and doing what you said you would do. Thank you for trying even when it feels like it's not working. Thank you for trying again even when you miss a day. It's working. Thank you for letting people show up for us. Thank you for trusting that we're worth it.
You're worth it.
Pause the music in your headphones, just for a minute. There's a woman and two men, a tambourine, a guitar, a violin. They are wandering the aisles while they serenade the sparse Saturday commute in Spanish. The guitarist smiles at the kids on the train with a joy that radiates through the space between his remaining teeth. They disappear the next time the doors open. A woman points across the subway car to make sure the man in a weekend suit pulling his coat off sees the hat he dropped. So many stories in this city. So many people to choose to love.
I hope your day is full of fucking magic. I love you. I love you enough that you can go out and love all of them.
When I was treating myself to a green juice (no celery, no cucumber, add apple please) on the walk to work, I went to grab a straw. They had thick ones of assorted colors.
“Purple straw!” Audible delight. The woman behind the counter chuckled.
I saw little me feeling free to express her easy joy out loud. I smiled, took her hand, and we danced the rest of the way to work.
I love your comments and the little hearts you send my way. Have you let love write to you lately? Are you on your own ladder? Want my dancing in the street playlist?
If you need help, feel free to email me.
Beautiful. What a beautiful vignette of what it is to be human.
This was very encouraging to read - I am almost 69 years old, and just now learning to appreciate things about myself that I did not before - like discovering something I forgot. Anyway - thank you for sharing this.