Sitting on the A train right now heading to JFK. Listening to the people around me. Two guys directly across are talking about their wardrobes. They started with shoes. And shoe straps and tones on the heel and laces and LeBron. They stand up to move towards the door and they switch to pants. PRPS? Nah. Not this fall. AG? Maybe. But a [sic] average pair is $150, one $130? Maybe $120 if you lucky. He’s going to go with khakis instead.
Euclid Ave. A woman in nurse scrubs, looks like she was ending a shift before this ride, stands up to exit. I thought the heavy weed smell was coming from the two guys, now moving on to fitteds. It wasn’t; it is her.
Right next to me is an 18 year old girl. She got on at Broadway Junction with a friend in a Verizon polo shirt. She’s rehearsing her responses to various interview questions, prompted by her partner. Currently majoring in accounting, wants to move into that field but thinks this could be a good experience as she works on her degree. She’s a Scorpio and a Jets fan, so she hopes whoever interviews her isn’t a pragmatic Giants lover.
Oh. This is Lefferts Bound. I have to get off now.
I took this picture of myself at the end of a day I spent in bed, scared and crying, feeling alone and hopeless and completely desperate.
This is the face of my mental illness. This is the face of my sadness when it is at its most inexplicable and its most pronounced.
I am not ashamed of it.