To Phoenix is No Myth

Frantically I just kept pressing the “LIKE” button as though the more I hit it, the more it would come back to me. Isn’t that what they say? What you give, you get. Well, I was in need of being liked. Right now I was greasy and grimy and unshowered behind the computer screen, a pathetic unwashed dollop of depression. I could smell myself: morning breath mingling with the stale musk of 9 hours of sweating under sheets. I loathed myself. My tangled, dark hair was completely in my face, but somehow the agitation was needed. I felt brushing it away was more than I deserved, so I left it there as a stripey screen darkening every perfect person with their perfect lives on Facebook. Tears were falling, soaking into the hair on my cheek, and the silence of my room began to ring in my ears. I am completely and forever alone, the ringing seemed to say in a human voice.

What do I do when I realize how alone I am? I look at “This day in history” on my Facebook memories… I look at old, happier times. At first I think it’s to cheer myself up, to show myself that I can be happy again. Really, though. Let’s be honest. I do it to torture myself and compare how happy I was then to how miserable I am now.  I even look at all of those who “liked” my smiling photos when I weighed 10, 20, 50 pounds less than I do now. What do I always discover? Many of those people who once liked the picture, once liked me, are no longer my Facebook friends, let alone real friends. A bolt of shock riddles through my body. Why? What did I do? What did I say? I am always smiling. I am always pleasant. 

Some are still colleagues at the bank. Some are still people I talk to daily. Some, I will admit, have fallen out of daily contact, but I consider our past something that should bind us together on the internet for life. Then, my mind whirls, and I go on a liking tirade. All while ugly-crying in my unshowered state of bleak self worth, the blurred screen becomes a smeared abstract painting, and I hope I am not “liking” the death of someone’s grandma, but my fingers just won’t stop their obsessive clicking. The tears do nothing to wash away my grotesque morning decay. 

If someone annoys me on Facebook, I unfollow. I never unfriend. That is just so mean, and I am not mean. Other people, like Francine, who is the teller to my left? She is obviously crueler than cruel. She liked me last year when I was in Aruba with Joel. Now? Nope. Unfriended. She is definitely present in my daily life. It’s not like she can pull down a screen in the bank terminal next to me with a big flashing “YOU’RE NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME!” logo in my face as we work the 9-5 every single day together. On Facebook? Oh, she can show me how she’d love to block me from her sight by unfriending me. The animal. 

I actually had plans for today. I was going to shower, obviously, but I was also going to drop off donated knitting kits to the retirement home. I had hosted a drive and collected almost more than my car could hold. That was before I knew Joel didn’t love me anymore. Before I knew he had been spending those late nights in the office with a girl named Irene, ten years younger than me. As I was blissfully collecting yarn, he was unraveling our marriage.

I was now hours into my computer screen staring binge. My only accomplishment? Making it from the bed to the couch.  It was my one day off, and this is how I was spending it? Where was my self discipline? My self drive? Oh, there I go digging into the cookies like some ironic meme, I spat at myself as the sugar cookie unicorn felt like sawdust in my mouth. They were crumbles of self hate that didn’t even taste good, but were meant to be a friend to comfort me. That was my go-to...food. To top off the pathetic scale? I was too lazy and full of disdain to crawl to the fridge to melt away the dust with something to drink, so I sat there and choked on the cookie and tears. This lasted longer than it should before I felt myself get angrier at myself than the Facebook blockers/unfrienders ever did. 

At this point, my body felt as though it had melted itself into the couch. I was a part of it. I was the couch. Lifting one leg and swinging it to the side felt as though I was on the last leg of climbing Mt. Everest, as I forced myself to close the laptop. Get in the shower. That’s all. One thing at a time. So, I did. I showered. Miraculously, the washed off grime made me feel less like a complete loser. The tears stopped. The loneliness and realizing I was about to go do something to help lonelier people than me, helped too. Eye makeup applied over the puffiness was complete. While I wasn’t feeling like a beauty queen, I felt presentable. 

I might not know why I wasn’t liked by so many people or why Joel stopped loving me, but I stared at myself in the mirror and asked out loud, “Would you be my friend?” It felt silly at first, like my crazy-quotient had another uptick. Then, there was something close to a ticked-off, I’m-ready-to-take-to-the-streets-with-a-sign, marching for amazing women like myself, kind of rumbling in my soul. Staring back at me was a brown-eyed lady with deep compassion, deep love for others, a constant need to help, and a desire to make others smile. 

“Of course I’d be your friend!” I shot back to myself, and I meant it. 

I dug deep into my makeup bag, I mean, the pockets that have not seen the light of day in years. My fingers found the smooth metal outline of the holiday red lipstick I had never worn, but had wanted to wear to the formal event for Joel’s work benefit last year. I had settled on “Blissful Beige” then.  That was before Joel had met Irene, had fallen in love with her “confidence,” and had left me. 

I spackled that red on my lips. No. Not just red. This shade was deemed “Light It on FIRE” according to the sticker on the bottom.  I outlined my lips and noticed just how thick and pouty those things truly were – no fake filter needed. Sultry, succulent, and not at all looking like I was heading to an Old Folks’ Home, but… WHO CARES?  I was gonna light it on fire! Everywhere I went. This was it.  I felt something sparkle up from deep within, and I actually threw my head back and laughed. This was no tentative giggle. This was a throaty, sensual siren song that made me feel at home within this skin, this body, this voice, these lips.  Maybe I was completely losing it, but this was far better than my pity party Facebook breakdown. 

There was the very real possibility (almost certainty) that once I got home, I would collapse back into grieving my ruined marriage. Maybe I would sink back into the couch for a while, but for now…For now, I would be me without having to get validation as to who that “me” should be from anyone. I would be the me who loved to bring joy to those needing it. I would drive this car to that residential home and feel uplifted that this act would lift others. I could live in this moment without past moments darkening it. One thing at a time…starting now.