toes in the stream, head in the clouds

water’s shallow enough to wade

but hand in hand with an angel

the depth makes no difference to me

because hand in hand with an angel

i could tiptoe across the sea

The precarious first step, the realisation that you are stuck in the mud, that you are no longer a teen, you are 20-ish (creative licence used), and drowning in the situation you have found yourself in.

That trapped sinking feeling in your stomach. That you are 20-ish feet deep.

The first step for me was not when I left school, or finished University or even when I was on the cusp of being made redundant. The realisation that I was drowning came when my long-standing family, friend who I had lost touch with for years decided to visit.

I had heard from my parents that he had gotten a girlfriend, gotten weighty and gotten a baby. All of these things repulsed me, the idea of commitment was a ball and chain that I almost laughed at, that I was free of such things.

It was when they came down to the quiet of our little baby-less bubble that I realised he was happy. It was when he asked what I was doing now that I realised, I had been stuck in the mud without realising it. I oodles in educational debt, no commitment, soon to be no job and no clue. That the sleepless nights and the headaches were symptoms of restless mind.

That evening the meal out was a nightmare, I never went out. I, as my dad commented was a “home-bird” this only added to the discomfort. As they cooed at the baby in the cot remarking of their recent venture into getting their own place. I could only nod and smile. The only saving grace was another friendly face, some guy from school-days behind the bar I had been crushing on, but would never fully consider.

We parted ways for the evening and promised to meet the next night, having completed the first reunion dinner, I turned to bed, as least I had managed to go out.

Then with another restless night, I checked social media armed with a name and face of my long-standing friends’ girlfriend. After about 10 minutes I found myself scrolling to the waiter of that evening only to be rejected by his relationship status with the waitress.

Having reached that first step, the moment of greatest enthusiasm with smallest follow-through, wanting to change.

#shaynabryer

Isn’t it lovely?

All alone

Heart made of glass

My mind of stone

Tear me to pieces

Skin to bone

Hello, welcome home.

This song by Khalid and Billie Eilish made me shed many tears. It reminded me of the time I had depression and I just couldn’t escape it.

Sacrifice, the researchers had said. For the greater good of humanity.

Robotic, observing, uncaring. They were blunt, I’ll give them that. They told me that the chances of surviving are slim to none, and that pain could possibly follow.

I knew what I was getting into. I had nothing to lose. No family, no money, nothing important. The other 11 volunteers probably felt the same.

Volunteering for a project with little to no scientific support was stupid, but damn was the money good.

…Although now that I think of it, the scientists probably didn’t expect anyone to survive. 10,000 each for any survivors with 12 volunteers, they’d be broke. Maybe they were even hoping that we would die so they wouldn’t have to pay up.

Rude.

Waking up was nothing dramatic, though seeing no familiar faces was a bit of a pain to deal with. Other than that, my treatment was systematic, and I was scheduled for a full release into the ‘wilderness’ that is society within a year, after I caught up to standards on the state of it.

Honestly, I would say that it was a bit anticlimactic, but I do know that knowing something, and seeing something with your own eyes makes a world of a difference.

So within a month into my treatment, I had asked to be given a week to see the world outside, and permission was granted, with the condition that there would always be at least 5 people monitoring me, although I most likely wouldn’t know where or who they were.

Walking down the streets of New York flooded with people, I couldn’t help but think that my spot in the experiment should have been taken by someone else.

I didn’t know how to react.

An experiment into stretching the lifespan through cryostasis should have used people with things to lose. If this system is to be implemented in real life anyways.

A normal person would probably be anxious, crying, or have locked themselves in their own room upon waking up. Everything was different, and everything would have become a reminder of what they lost. Or perhaps they would have reveled in the convenience that the technology of the future provides, who knows.

Me? I didn’t care. I didn’t care that I was technically decades older than the grey-haired man sitting over there at the bus station. I didn’t care that not a single thing surrounding me matched my memories.

I didn’t care that I had lost what little I had left, the small cafe around the corner that I particularly liked, or that barber shop down the street which always smelled like mint shaving cream that I was fond of. I didn’t care that I would never see it again, nor did I care that the people that would hand me an extra scone at the cafe are most likely dead.

I didn’t care. But realizing that, realizing that I had not considered what was left for me worth it, realizing that I didn’t care, wasn’t worth the 67 years that I had given up.

And no amount of neon lights and concrete buildings and futuristic thingamajigs will ever change that fact for me.

This recipe calls for: 

-6 cups of anxious coping mechanisms

-2 1/2 cups of meme references 

-3 tablespoons of forced laughter 

-1 tablespoon of wrathful hatred 

-1/4 tablespoon of pure spite

-2 teaspoons of the benefit (must be extracted from the doubt) 

-1/2 teaspoon of genuine giggles 

-1 pinch of unfiltered joy 

Preheat blanket for 4 hours with depression nap. 

If you can, leave bed and mix all ingredients in a bowl. Notice that you added too much or not enough of one of the ingredients. Begin crying. 

Allow tears to mix with the dry ingredients and stir slowly. Gradually stir faster and more aggressively when you remember Election Week. 

At this point, a bit of snot should be getting in the bowl as well. This is good! To make sure the tears and snot come down consistently, think about how white liberals just began to care about the systematic lynching of black people only to abandon the movement after electing our first ever black female cop into office.

When it’s reached an even consistency, slowly pour the contents over the overdue assignments that your professors didn’t give you extensions for despite the literal pandemic. 

Stare at the mess you’ve created. Your best bet is to abandon ship and go get a cake from that little store you like to cheer yourself up. Too bad being outside is illegal right now. 

Crawl back into bed. The blanket should still be warm if preheated properly. 

Sleep.

The ingredients in this recipe contain the lessons I am hopeful to learn from in my lifetime. These qualities have been brewing for 47 years now. Please see the replacements that can be used in this lesson.

*In a soul, collect the empathy. If empathy isn't found please use patience.

*Mix a good amount of fear of conflict. If there is no conflict, you can add confrontation.

*Stir in quite a bit of foolish naive behavior and believing lies. Instead of foolishness you can replace with overthinking or using, however if you choose to use--please note there may be a bitter after taste.

*Add a mindful amount of giving second chances over and over again. If the second chances aren't available than you could throw in a door mat.

*Add in a hint of guilt. The heaviest guilt is best suited for this recipe. If needed, you could add some self-loathing.

After mixing all ingredients together you can finish by garnishing with acceptance, thoughtfullness and tenderheartedness.

For this recipe, the clumsier and more inexperienced the makers, the better:

Take:

- 3 cups of joy

- 2 cups of emotional sensitivity

- 1 cup of vanity

Sift it through:

- competitiveness

- an inability to take up space

- superficiality

Let it sit for five to ten years.

Now add:

- 1 tablespoon of creativity [ this should sizzle and feed the existing yeast ]

- 2 teaspoons of self-righteousness

- 1 teaspoon of anxiety

Leave the dough in a dark environment, to fester with no sunlight.

Optional:

- angsty hormonal teenagers

- angry gossiping

- a few classrooms in need of a scapegoat

A couple of years, start kneading it. Let the dough sweat and cry out. You should pummel before you leave it to rise. It will lose its misshapen beaten up look.

Now, handle it with care and place it somewhere warm, preferably on a leafy balcony overlooking the sea. Pour love and music in, and a few drops of wordy litter.

Next. Put it in a parcel and send it all over the world.

4-13 cups of emotional abuse,

1 cup of holding it all in,

1 and 1/2 cups of letting it go and having some of the best friendships around,

15 cups of moving (constant constant constant moving),

about 6 tablespoons or so of insanity (or, at the very least, being told as much and feeling so),

3-4 heaping cups (or pounds) of love for twenty one pilots

a pinch of empathy and compassion (only a pinch; it spreads so fast that you might sour),

2 pinches of love for others,

a handful of not feeling deserving of others’ love,

3-7 teaspoons of depression,

3-7 teaspoons of anxiety,

and maybe about 9 or 10 teaspoons of some PTSD, if you’ve got some (storebought does just as well as all-natural)

and i suppose there might be some better qualities, but i’m failing to think of any that i really, truly, deserve to have in this recipe of myself as of this moment.

sift and mix the dry ingredients (moving, insanity, love, empathy and compassion, and not feeling deserving of others’ love) in a large bowl, making sure to be generously rough with each stir.

once thoroughly mixed, pour in the emotional abuse as you see fit and then throw in the holding it all in, fully wrapped (this is to make sure it is honestly ‘held all in’).

you may have to melt it on high for a few days and rest your arms from the heavy and rough stirring before returning to the recipe. this is fine. let it sit for some time and do not fret or wonder if it feels the suicidal tendencies, yet.

once the mix looks a bit radioactive, it’s time to add in the anxiety, depression, and then the PTSD - in that order.

follow up with a week or so in the freezer before pulling it out to thaw an hour.

this is the best part, i swear.

please pour the love for twenty one pilots right on top. this should soak in, and may need a few minutes to settle. no need to stir.

to make sure the love for twenty one pilots is soaked up, the mixture may look a little brighter. healthier, one might say.

afterwards, pour in, very slowly, the letting it go and having some of the best friendships around, making sure to stir quickly as it softens the harder mixture.

if it turns all sorts of colors and looks really happy, you know you’ve done well.

cook for about a month at 400 degrees.

then, pull it out, very carefully.

smash it to bits with a hammer, and maybe pour some glue on, for a glaze.

serve cold, with a side of a hefty dental bill.

“I’m an aspiring billionaire.” What the fuck is that. I couldn’t be happier that I grew up with a set of conniving motherfuckers just so I could keep a straight face while this dude pulled whatever he could out of his ass. I’m an aspiring billionaire, our waiter is an aspiring billionaire, my dog is an aspiring billionaire.

“Hmm, really.” I swirled my spoon in my soup and let my mind be filled with the sound of soft music from the back of the restaurant. Why did I say yes to this date? I knew...ooh I knew this wasn’t going to turn out with being utterly fascinated in a guy who’s main hobby was “Protecting his vibes”. I guess it shows how desperate things can get when you can’t find anyone in your life with time for you.

“My friend Jack and I are going to up this tech company in San Francisco or Seattle depending on which one of us is going to invest the majority of the upstart cost.” He ran his hand through his rust curls and leaned forward on his arm giving me a very flirty look but considering I wasn’t really attracted to him it was just kinda funny.

I can’t wait to go home.

*******

The cold air coiled around my feet as I fumbled with the keys to my apartment. I shouldn’t have worn heels but you always taught me to always leave the house dressed to impress. I haven’t always done it but...since you’re not here, maybe I should listen to you more.

Whiskey nudged my hand with her nose and jumped up to lick me the face.

“Hi, pretty girl. Did you miss me?” I dropped my bag and squeezed her face, giving her a kiss on the nose before motioning for her to let go. “You hungry? I’m not but I’m still going to have a bowl of ice cream as my consolation prize for even going on that stupid date.” She looked up at me with what I would like to call her ‘be honest, you just like ice cream’ face.

Whiskey had a white stripe down her nose and back the continued all the way down to the tip of her tail. She was stocky like most Pitbulls but I always thought she had this elegance about her when she ran...not so much when I found her headfirst in the garbage can but still a very elegant dog.

After we both ate I took her out for a walk hoping to run into my friend April who sometimes left the house at this hour to take her daughter, Jasmine, out for a walk in her stroller. We both preferred the smell and feel of night air coursing through our lungs after a long day but since Jasmine was born she has been spending more and more time indoors, understandably.

I wasn’t grumpy about it or anything it’s just...I missed my friend. I missed having someone to vent and talk with. She always had good stories and she always knew what I was trying to say even if I didn’t. I wasn’t good at making friends. I had a tendency to be overly irritated with small things and overly willing to put up with crap at the same time.

So, I guess more accurately, I’m not good at make good friends which put me in the position of usually have a circle of crappy people in my life and before I met April I’m pretty sure I didn’t even know what an actual reciprocal friendship was supposed to be.

And now, we barely spoke, it felt like life was just pulling us in different directions. She went to baby group meetings, brunches with her husband, and hip-hop yoga classes. I went out to the dog park while enjoying a bagel and some water, went to work, and then got home in time to continue binge-watching whatever CW or Netflix show has currently stolen my attention.

The less and less we talked the more and more it felt like it was hard to believe we had even been friends in the first place, as dramatic as that sounds.

The more and more I thought it through the more and more lonely I felt. Even if the people around me hadn’t good I was never alone. I always had someone I could go see or invite over. I always knew that even if I didn’t want to hang out with anyone, I could if I wanted to.

I made an extra loop around the block closest to my house hoping to maybe see April going to the park or something but no luck so we went back home just as lonely as we had been when we left.

I looked down out my baby girl with a smile, “At least we have each other.”

****

The city is never quiet no matter how early or late it is, it doesn’t remind me of home and sometimes it doesn’t even feel like it’s my home. I lean my head against the window, watching the cars zoom past the cab. I wanted my mind to just quiet out for a few moments but even when I wasn’t working on something my brain never seemed to be able to just accept quietness.

It was so different from how I behaved just a few years ago. I was so anxious all the damn time that the only way I had been able to quell those feelings was by just not thinking. By shutting off the parts of me that tried to live in the moment. I put a wall between me and the present because the only thing that didn’t overwhelm me and strangle me was silence. It was in those moments by myself that a quiet terror curled up in the back of my mind waiting for it’s time to wrap around my throat when I needed to speak up the most.

The rain trailing down the windows reminds me of the pictures of Tracee’s honeymoon in Scotland. I had been less than thrilled to be pounced on when she got back to work from her honeymoon eager to show everyone those pictures but I had to admit that all of those stretching lengths of green, quaint towns, beautiful cities, and mist-covered lakes had captured my mind for the past few weeks.

It was one of those things I fantasized about for weeks, planned out how I might do it, and talked about endlessly to the few people I was able to meet within passing as I tried to figure out my pace in the city. I was taught that you could make your life what you wanted. That you shouldn’t care about what other people thought about you however none of that stopped me from a yearning to just fit in with what I had assumed was the normal standard when in reality most people within the normal want to be outside of that standard as much as I wanted to be in it.

The taxi swung into park in front of the seemingly endlessly tall grey box I worked in and I almost wanted to ask him to drive me back to my apartment but I didn’t. I got out, paid him, and walked into work with a reluctant and tired smile on my face.

I ended up sitting at my desk with nothing to do by 12pm rolled around so I scrolled through Expedia looking at flights to Europe. God, no that’s expensive..wait if I took this flight I could shave off 100 bucks which would let me take two bags with me instead of one. Why would I need two bags, I’m not moving to Scotland. Why am I even thinking about this I’m not even going to Scotland.

Irritation seeped out of me in the form of a groan as I tilted my head back and closed out of Expedia. Life is so boring. Turning my head to the side I saw my boss chatting to Frank and Eliza about this week’s meetings with our future clients and how we can best appeal to them. Future clients, not representatives from a brand because saying Future Clients is supposed to fill you with a sense of success and a want to achieve what you have stated as the goal. It’s supposed to leave no room for failure.

I want a future life that amounts to more than Monday meetings with guy who still picks his nose. That’s what would make me happy.