Using my voice.

Storytelling is a part of life. No, not just a part; it’s what makes life so beautiful. You can find it in anything if you look closely enough. I grew up in New York City. From buses to trains to sidewalks, a place where stories are everywhere. There are the obvious ones, like those chain fences with initial-engraved locks on them. People screaming in public, while you’re hoping they aren’t talking to an innocent person on the other end of the phone. Those are easy to ponder. But if you only focus on the immediate ones, you’ll miss some really interesting narratives. Peer into a library window, and you can tell who’s really into a book, who’s frantically searching for an answer, who’s been forced to spend their afternoons at a stupid library instead of hanging out with their friends. Stare at the sidewalk, look at the cracks. Picture all the little kids, carefully leaping over them as they sing. Watch a couple walk by, and look at their hands. Do they interlace their fingers, or just intertwine their pinkies? Is one’s grip a little stronger than the other? Does that mean that person is more protective? Is it jealousy? Or just passionate, intense love? Every little thing we see has a story, a reason, a context, a million details.

I’ve always noticed every detail. Not just noticed, absorbed. Here’s the problem with that, though: that trait doesn’t always work to my advantage. Especially not when I have severe ADHD and get trapped in stories that aren’t mine for hours at a time, obsessing over things that didn’t even happen to me. Here’s my dilemma — my greatest gift is also my greatest challenge. My heart is like an unkempt Library of Alexandria, rich, and complex. All the books are open, facing me, enveloping me in each narrative until my features get less and less clear and I can’t even tell which feelings belong to me anymore. Until every step I take holds the weight of every soul I move with. Until I’m heavy, oversaturated with experiences that aren’t my own. And there’s only one thing that makes me feel lighter: my art.

Writing is my first and purest medium. It comes naturally to me. I’ve always held the belief that stories deserve to be shared in their fullest. I enjoy using my words like a paintbrush, honing in on every detail, using perspective and emphasis like an artist. I love sharing my writing. It’s like sharing my soul. But sometimes, when the words become jumbled, unbearable and noisy, movement is the next way out. In retrospect, it isn’t surprising that I became completely obsessed with dance, I’m like a little girl with a crush on ballet. Sometimes I come home, fluttering through the door, still rolling through my feet with each step I take through my apartment. The divine realization for me, is when I become aware that the noise has quieted. My mind is still. I can focus. And then I understand that dance is an art, that is also medicine.

From the page to the stage, being an artist, creating, and releasing every narrative I pick up is what I’ve used to slow the tornado that is my mind. Don’t get me wrong, the way my mind works has its magic. While it’s cluttered, it’s also abundant. I always have something to offer. A story to break the silence. An idea. A memory to remind everybody of, and a precise one at that. I’ll hold the smallest of events, the ones that happened at 4:27 pm on a random Tuesday afternoon. I’ll always have a story. And maybe my Library of Alexandria will always be overflowing. I’m learning that I don’t have to carry all those stories at once. Through my art, I can give them somewhere to live. Room to breathe.

i didn’t know if i’d ever be okay again. that’s not something i really told most people.

i thought that what happened was going to kill me. not that it would actually be taking my own life, but becoming a lifeless husk of a human, or becoming a person i no longer recognized, i really thought this was going to kill me. but as i move forward…

i find myself still crossing my feet when i sit down. not my legs, just my feet. i still whine when i need to wake up too early in the morning. still say the word fuck way too much. i still give people that cheeky closed-mouth smile when they walk past me. i still laugh with that high-pitched voice and cover my mouth. i still giggle hysterically at funny videos in public. im still clingy and cuddly towards people i like, and civil and avoidant towards people i dont. i still take the most random and unnecessary walks around manhattan while listening to one song on repeat. i still hold my phone just slightly too close to my face. i’m still always one of the most talented writers in the room. i still have a flaming passion for ballet. i still yearn for the pacific northwest. i still love having my hair touched. i still love.

but that’s not everything. now, i create complex choreography in my head when i hear music i like. i take photos of everything and everyone. i wear too much perfume, and im always covered in glitter. i can sleep on my own in my home, i dont stay awake until somebody is there with me. i see beauty in every single thing that exists. i linger in hugs just a little longer, smile just a little wider. i love more quietly, more intentionally. i look in the mirror and feel proud of what ive accomplished. i trust my friends. i explore just a little deeper. i walk just a little farther. im not afraid to ask anything of anyone. i love myself. and to have succeeded in that, well, thats the biggest achievement that i will ever make.

Written in transit, on the M42 crosstown bus.