I do not know where to start explaining how weird the last two weeks have been.
I guess I’ll start chronologically. Two weeks ago, I talked about how I was going to get into graphic design. That, like most things, is going to take significantly longer than I thought; I’m still building a portfolio and setting up accounts on different sites, but those efforts got hit pretty quickly by real life bullshit.
I usually don’t give details on this kind of stuff, but I had a really bad panic attack in public last week. And—this is not a joke—it was actually because of my roommate’s daughter being on her cell phone. And let me just explain what that even means.
I’ve never talked about it on here, but a major deterrent to my creative efforts in the past few months has been my roommate’s daughter talking on her phone. And, because that probably sounds like an exaggeration, just imagine the following:
- Imagine the most annoying person you’ve ever heard on a phone. Unreasonably loud, even when speaking. Maybe yelling their friends’ names and actually cackling when they laugh. If you’re imagining a comedian doing an intentionally over-the-top impersonation of someone drunkenly shout-laughing, I promise that you’re in the ball park.
- Imagine that this person . . . is your roommate’s/landlord’s daughter.
- Imagine that, a few months into the pandemic, she decides that, in the apartment you share with her and her family, the best place for her to take her online courses is on the couch that is seven feet across from your bedroom door.
- Imagine that your roommate’s/landlord’s daughter just tells her teacher something’s wrong with her camera, mutes herself on Zoom, and then calls her friends, laughing over her school lessons. Maybe she puts on music, but whatever she does, she’s always yelling. Sometimes, she’s yelling for her mom to get her food, even though the kitchen is 10 feet away from her couch. Sometimes, she’s yelling for her brother, who’s at the far end of the apartment, to come answer the front door, which is right next to her couch. Usually though, she’s yelling because her friends just said something so funny it requires another insane cackle, just like the one from two minutes ago.
- And, finally (and this is the most important part), imagine that this happens Monday through Friday, from (on average) 9am to 5pm.
TL;DR: Imagine having to listen to the most annoying person you’ve ever heard on the phone for (again, on average) eight fucking hours, five days a week.
For months, I just tried to shrug it off. But when someone is screaming so loudly that I could hear her through (I shit you not) earplugs and headphones, with music/videos at max volume through those headphones, it’s just torture. Like, no matter how cool you think you’d be with it, it’s actually a torture technique they used at Guantanamo.
I asked this girl, very early on, to please keep her volume down.
The next week, she was back on that couch.
I was worried about talking to her mom because, with COVID, I was already expecting the dreaded, “You have to move out.” Not because I loved being in this apartment, but because I’d lost my job and the only place I could go was back with my mom, who has always had issues with her lungs. So, rather than complaining to my landlord (who was always present and knew it was happening anyway), I just grinned, bared it, and developed a really terrible schedule (where I tried to stay up as late as possible to work while everyone was asleep, and then sleep in as close to 5pm as I could [which never worked because she would usually wake me up bright and early at 9am anyway]).
All of this came to a head last week, when I had that panic attack.
Now, I’m not a person who has panic attacks. I struggle with depression, so I’m used to lying in bed, staring at a window, doing nothing and feeling hopeless. Panic attacks are a very, very different experience.
On that day (and I don’t even remember which day—maybe Wednesday), I was at a supermarket, looking at the wall of budget cereal brands they have here in the Bronx. I’d already been woken up early (after staying up until 4am the previous night working on a logo), so I was exhausted.
And I just looked at that wall of cereal, considered which one to buy, thought, “I’ve had them all and I don’t like any of them, but I have to pick one,” and my brain just shot me forward in time, to when I’d be sitting at my desk, in my room, eating cereal I hated while listening to that girl on her phone . . .
. . . and I just started crying.
Not bawling or sobbing. Not even obvious. The emotion hit me, I took a breath, thought, “Fuck, am I actually about to cry?” and then started hyperventilating while walking around that supermarket, looking for the stuff I was supposed to buy.
Just, overall, real bad time.
I got upstairs, actually cried in my room (yes, while the girl was yelling to her friends in the background), and then, finally acknowledging that I just could not listen to more cackling, I knocked on her mom’s door.
And this is where the miracle part starts, but not the entirety of said miracle.
Turns out her mom also totally hated her being on the phone all the time.
Thank . . . God.
She and her husband were going to talk to her daughter when he got home, and finally . . . my long-standing, surprisingly effective, literal torture was over.
I’m absolutely sure that I created a super villain (because the daughter went into her room and didn’t make noise or come out for the rest of the night, but it is impossible for me to care.
Because when I got back to my room, dead silence. Total and complete.
I went to sleep, woke up, wrote, and worked more on that logo. Basically, I lived. And it was amazing.
The next few days, I was just in recovery mode. Didn’t try to be especially productive, but I did finish a logo for the portfolio and got a good amount of writing done.
Cut to this week . . . which started with what I can only call a family meeting.
My landlord/roommate was there. Her husband, son, and daughter were as well.
I was totally expecting the worst.
And they told me . . . they were moving.
And this part is the miracle part.
Because I have not been kicked out; for whatever reason, they aren’t breaking their lease.
They’re just letting me live here–by myself–for the same amount of rent I’ve been paying. They are going to find a roommate for me . . .
. . . but right now, I live in this apartment by myself.
And just . . . I’ve never mentioned it on this site, but I’ve never lived anywhere by myself, and that’s been a dream of mine for years. My major resolution for this upcoming year was “Get that apartment.”
So this, for me, is a Christmas miracle. Having an apartment all to myself for Christmas is just . . . it’s probably silly, but I can’t express how much it means to me. The freedom alone—the sense that I can go to sleep, shower, wake up, cook, write whenever I want is almost too much.
It is such a crazy blessing.
And a ridiculous boon to everything in life.
Like, if anyone ever tells you that it isn’t any easier to finish working on a project in a quiet apartment, that is an absolute lie. I’ve been blissfully cooking actual food and taking longer than necessary “freedom” visits to the bathroom, but I’ve also legit been pissed imagining how much further along I could’ve been in my writing career if I’d always had a quiet place to work.
But, whatever—I don’t want to get hung up on that.
The point is, I am currently living in a miracle (especially in New York). It is wildly temporary (I’m assuming I have a week before shit goes to hell), but I am just taking it. This Christmas is just mine.
And I’m not just going to use it to make coquito and take longer-than-necessary showers.
I’m going to fucking finish my outline for Memory, start writing that novel, apply for jobs, open my freelance design profile, and get as much done as I possibly can.
I’m going to use it to live the life I want if only for a week or two.
But, most importantly—and this is going to come out of nowhere, but—I’m going to use it to start the year I’ve been dreaming of since forever.
I’ve fantasized about it for a while, and in those fantasies, it’s been the year when I finish Memory, stop living with roommates, stop worrying about work. The year when I stop feeling stuck.
I’ve always thought of it as “The Year of Endings.”
And it begins right now.
~~~
I know this one is a little weird, but I’m actually happy for the first time in a long time, so forgive me.
I am taking next week off because I want to get as much done as I possibly can in this coming week. But I’ll definitely be back in January to kick off my Year of Endings.
I hope all of you have an awesome holiday. Stay safe, text someone you love and tell them you love them, and most importantly, if you didn’t know, Tofurky sausages taste, like, 500% better when you can actually fucking cook them. Fire is awesome, shoutout to my boy Prometheus, I love y’all, and happy holidays!
House of Error 