(2) You promised it would not be more than I could take.
And it wasn't.
I don’t die, and I also don’t spend any more days with the boy, the best parts of him or the worst. I peel myself off of the bathroom floor and begin trying to be alive again.
But before I explain what happened on that floor, I suppose I should rewind.
So much of this story is just rewinding.
Because it starts in 2020, yes — another pandemic story, another cliche.
And it also starts in 2014 — when I moved to New York City and began a yoga teacher training for all the wrong reasons but was precisely right.
And it really starts in late 2006 — when in the span of 6 months I fled a dangerous relationship in the middle of the night, flew across the world with two suitcases, and met the man I would marry.
So of course it actually starts in 1983, when I was born to two wildly unhealed Taiwanese parents in Atlanta, Georgia, and also long before then, when a star exploded, when a universe was formed; it starts at a time I cannot comprehend, or maybe it never starts at all. Maybe it is all happening and has always been happening and always will be happening. Maybe that.
You promised.
I’m in the bathroom, in the jungle. In the room next door there is an ayahausca ceremony happening, which I have just crawled out of on my hands and knees. They asked that we try and stay in the space as much as possible, and for me it is not possible.
I cannot bear for anyone to witness what or where or who I am.
To put it in the simplest, most dramatic, most reductive terms, I have just discovered how much I hate myself.
You promised; you promised. I’m sitting on the concrete floor slouched against the wall holding an empty plastic bucket half in my lap. It is unclear if I am speaking out loud or only in my head. You promised, I weakly wail, that this would not be more than I could take.
There is no answer. I heave into the bucket, purposefully, again and again. There’s something in me, something horrendous, and I am desperate to get it out of me. If I can get it out, I know I will feel better. If I can get it out, I will be free. I will be back to normal. I will be fine.
Nothing comes out. I heave until my abs are sore and my throat is raw. The horror stays in me.
I drag myself upright and go to the mirror. My skin is eerily gray; my eyes like black indents. I lean on the sink and start to sob. You said, you said. You said you would not give me more than I could handle. Now I know I am speaking aloud; the desperation scrapes at my vocal chords and pricks my ears. I can’t handle this, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.
The silence responds, heavy and unyielding. I think that for the first time I understand why people kill themselves on a bad acid trip. I never got it before; psychedelics were always joyful for me, laughing until I cried, seeing when the stars were born. Now I know — you can get stuck in the darkest part of your brain and be afraid that you will never get out. You feel that you’ll be this way forever.
That is where I am — in the hallway of funhouse mirrors of my mind, distortions everywhere I turn. I am inside my own hatred of myself, and all I see are bright slashing lines and the air pulsing with disgust. You’re so weak, the mirrors say. You are revolting, pathetic. You cannot do anything on your own. Everyone does everything for you; you always need help. You wasted all your gifts, all your talent, all your potential. You are a waste of flesh and bone and mind. You could have been great but you wasted it and became rotten, and your rottenness poisons everyone around you. Why would you stay alive.
I sink to the floor, too tired to try and throw up anymore, too tired to wail. I put one cheek against the cold concrete, and it’s the best thing I’ve ever felt, this sharp chill. For awhile, I only breathe and focus on the concrete. When it gets too warm, I turn my heavy head to put the other cheek down.
I’m sorry, I whisper into the floor.
I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I can’t do this, I’m so sorry.
I’m bargaining now, I am aware. I offer up my apologies, hoping to be spared. I’m sorry for my weakness; I’m sorry I’m such a bad person. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry; let me die please; I’m so sorry.
Nothing changes. The slashing lines are still there, the horrible weight in my stomach that I cannot purge. I start to cry.
I don’t know where it comes from, to be honest. To this day, I don’t know how I knew what I needed to do. But from somewhere, the words spill from my mouth.
I love you.
It’s so soft at first; my lips work to form the shapes. It’s a whisper from the very back of my throat, or somewhere deeper. Oh darling — I love you.
It gets easier to say. I love you. Em, Emily, baby, sweetheart. Oh my god, how I love you. I’m on my side now, curled around multiple versions of myself. Eight years old and already getting yelled at for an A- on a report card. 21 and zoned out on a steady stream of cocaine because she believed it was her fault a man had died. 22 and being told on the day she graduated from one of the top 10 universities in the country that she was a disappointing waste of potential. 23 and overhearing the man who got her pregnant tell his friends he might need to accidentally push her down the stairs one day. All these girls, so scarred that they remained stuck in time. Dear one, darling, child of the moon, I say to them. I love you. I LOVE you. You’re so beautiful. You’re so incredible. I love you so much, I love you SO. MUCH.
We stay together, the girls and me. I don’t know for how long. I tell them everything I love about them. Their kindness, their generosity. The way they love. How soft their skin is, how much they care. I love you, I love you. I hold their hands and catch their gaze. I pull them closer to me, squeeze tighter. You are the love of my life, my sweet one. You are the love of my life.
Hours or maybe days pass as we whisper love between us, though I’m told later it was probably only 15 minutes. At some point, I open my eyes, and the slashing lines are gone. The air is quiet. My stomach is empty and still; there’s no longer anything begging to be purged. There are darknesses, it turns out, that are not foreign to us. Cannot be expelled. Can only be absorbed by love.
I get off the concrete floor and walk back to the ceremony space. I kneel on the ground and ask the room:
May I sing for you?
They say, please.