Running Into My Past, and Shoes
I’m sitting in a cafe, frozen with panic that I might see a woman I know. My husband saw her working here once and I honestly don’t know what I’d do if I ran into her. I had him go inside first to check if she was working but he didn’t see her, so we came in. And now I’m in a daze, sitting with my cup of tea, staring into space.
I knew her a few years ago, around the time we had our wedding, when we worked together at a different cafe. I was a different person then, three- no four years ago. Before TMS, before Ketamine, before Abilify when I worked in an office, then left and went on disability for mental illness. Before our last trip to Germany, before I gained all this weight, before this summer when I truly lost my mind. Maybe she wouldn’t recognize me? I’ve been through a lot. Maybe I look different enough to go unnoticed. I imagine how it would be if something else horrible had happened to me- cancer, or a miscarriage maybe. Would I feel so ashamed? So panicked that I can’t even order my own tea, so bewildered that I can’t think of anything to say to my husband?
I’ve had this kind of experience in the past- the worst thing in the world might be running into someone you haven’t seen in a while. I once ran into the composer of a show I’d been in- he’d known me when I was thin and “doing things.” I ran into him and another singer from the show. I had gained weight- a lot of weight. The singer said, “I almost didn’t recognize you!” Such tact.
The last time we were in Germany I dreaded running into people from the opera. I was no longer singing, no longer doing anything. And how could I explain it? How could I ever explain what had happened to me, why I’ve fallen so far?
Our wedding was around the time things started to go downhill. I wore green shoes with an antique cotton slip as a skirt and a custom-made blouson top, both white. I had a floral kimono jacket and a small blush clutch. A huge floral crown on my head, I smiled and gushed at all the guests, laughing and dancing. I don’t remember dancing since. I still have the green shoes- I love them. They are one of five pairs of heels that I own. Blush gladiator block-heel sandals, black sling-back cork wedges, and two pairs of identical pairs of peep-toe loafer-style heels, one black and one taupe. I don’t wear any of them. I hardly get dressed at all, never mind put on a pair of heels. But I love them all, they are all comfortable, and I imagine wearing them in the future. When I’m better. Which feels like never.
Instead I wear slip-on Supergas in gray or tan, snow boots from Lands’ End, ankleboots from Naturalizer. I have some tall wedge-heel boots from Sorel which get an occasional outing and some brown “Hobbit” shoes that I wear out of laziness, and for comfort. I have a pair of low-heeled boots with foldover cuffs in gray suede which I adore, but have suddenly become too small. Can you gain weight in your feet? Well, those will have to go, no matter how unique and perfect I think they are. They’re too tight to walk in. So I’m left with what- 11 pairs? Clearly I’m not so minimalist in this area. I’m not even all that practical- I mean, five pairs of heels that I don’t wear?
But keeping them means there’s hope for a future. The same way I kept my smaller clothes. It means there’s hope that maybe this extra weight will go away now that my meds have changed, now that I’m eating less, now that I don’t eat at night. Things are starting to shake loose, starting to open up. Small things, but painful ones- remembering who I was before the world closed in on me, came crashing down. What do I like to do? Who am I now without a career? Who am I without the hope of a fantastical future with fame and riches and the performing arts? But I read a book the other day; I left the house to go to a movie or for coffee. I bought and wrapped Christmas presents, however meager. And I cry every day in agony. Because at the same rate that I get better, my awareness of what I’ve lost grows. My abilities and my grief in tandem, alternately springing hope and slashing me down.
