MANIC ON LONELY FIRE

MANHATTAN – SOME NIGHT OF SEVERAL

Getting my apartment seemed fun, until I was actually there, all alone in a room with a futon and a bookshelf. So this was the life. This was freedom. Living in a box with no comforting distraction like a TV to pass the time, or make white noise. I am so lonely that I got a call from a solicitor trying to get me to switch telephone providers and I found myself asking him where he was calling from, how his job was going; pretty much anything I could to keep him on the phone so I didn’t have to be alone in my sterile place. He was from Georgia and we chatted for a bit till I got to that point in the conversation where I wondered what the fuck I was doing. Were things that bad that I had to talk to a phone solicitor? I guess it was no different than talking to random people on the subway, or on the bus, or on the street, or storm up to them in a restaurant or a bar and think it was quite alright to sit down and chat until that other point in the conversation when the person looks at you like you are mad and wonders why the hell you are sitting at their table all of a sudden, or even in their conversation to begin with.

I sat on my fire escape and watched the naked guy across the street and wondered what it would be like to get my kicks out of sticking my dick out my window while watching innocent victims on the street pass by. I wondered if that would cure my terrible deep seated sadness for companionship and an end to my slow time. Usually I would stay out till I was exhausted by booze that would fuel my sleep, but tonight, I am sitting here and not comfortable in my own space. I decided to call my drug dealer and get some pot delivered.
“Hi. My name is Newanda and I live on 177 East 77th street and I would like to RSVP for the party.”
I hung up and felt relief that I would come across someone other than my naked masturbator across the street. Twenty minutes later I opened the door to my delivery guy and realized he too had other places to go that night; other people to help escape from their sober lives. I sat on the hard wood floor and smoked the pot out of the shitty joint I never seemed to know how to make. Moments later I was numb. Numb to anxiety, loneliness, caring. I didn’t think anymore about anything, and could stop the ongoing thrust of thought running through my head. Thank God for that. Thank God for pot.

One puff and the thoughts bursting on and on in my brain were silenced, at least until tomorrow.

JOURNAL ENTRY

I came home to a red light blinking on my answering machine and didn’t want to check the messages. Checking meant calling someone back which was too much effort at the time. I stripped off my clothes and got in the bath with my mangos. I tried to take a mere moment to not think but it was at those wannabe quiet times that I found myself thinking deep down against my will. I thought about my hyper nights and how they might stem from a deep depression. I am so lonely and tired that I can’t deal. It’s a reverse depression takes hold and I am out on the town lashing out onto society. I can only thank the angels that surround me and protect the people that cross my face.

JOURNAL ENTRY

I liked to run, I liked to drink, I liked to do drugs, I liked to eat, I liked to kiss, I liked to masturbate and I liked to do all of these to the utmost extreme. After watching Oprah today, I am convinced there is something deep inside me that is in pain. Something that drives me to excess. But it’s never been something I wanted to change, in fact, at times I was proud of my passion: my ability to do nothing half ass in my life. I have to admit, there is a fine line between passion and whatever is on the other side, and hopefully through writing and telling my tales, I will come close to defining that line, and discovering the me, beneath the ball of energy that drives me to do more, be more, have more, and get more.
My first boss always used to say “The simple truth is...” Nothing was simple about my first job out of college, nothing was simple about these past few years. The bottom line is truth is NOT simple. Truth is never simple. If truth were simple, we would be living free of fast food and Ricki Lake because it is easier to buy a Big Mac and sit and watch ridiculous people spill their guts on television and feel some sense of relief that you are not so pathetic, than it is to eat a untainted piece of fruit or look at yourself in the mirror naked and ask yourself, who the hell am I?

JOURNAL ENTRY – LOOKING BACK

My first attempt to change began my junior year in college. I was walking to the gym for yet another day of volleyball practice. It was my ninth year of volleyball and it was no longer a sport to me, I was going through the motions like a mime with skill. I decided to stop by the office to speak to my coach about something that bothered me about her coaching, and didn’t expect to walk out of the gym and never return.
“Hey Lobe! I never see you in here.” I hated her nickname for me but somehow dealt with it.
“I just wanted to drop by and talk to you about something.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t think I can do this anymore. I don’t feel like it anymore.”
“You don’t feel like what?” I stared at her perplexed face that squeezed out of her terrible hair cut, hair that looked like she was a blind bull dike, and knew she was not ready for my next statement.
“I don’t feel like playing anymore.”
“A lot of people go through times when they hate their sport. That’s part of playing.”
I wanted to reach across her desk and pop off her tiny head like a pez dispenser.
“Yeah well that feeling has gone on for way too long and I have decided today to do something about it.” I sat across the table firmly believing in the truth that was easily pouring out of my mouth.
“So you are just going to quit?”
“Yes.” Tears streamed down my face. I didn’t feel an ounce of pity for deserting her, because I couldn’t stand the bitch. My tears stemmed from my ability to finally free myself from the burden of holding onto a sport that had become dead in me. It was like letting go of a dead animal that you carried on your shoulder for years and years, just because you always have. I was crying out of pure joy, because saying those words ended the internal struggle.
“You are going to regret this.” She challenged me with her stupidity, and I looked her straight in the eye and said, “I don’t think so.” I walked out of her miserable hole of an office.
I continued to cry and tried to pull myself together as I exited the building. I walked up the stairs out onto campus, and felt the weight lifted off my shoulders at every step I took. I did it! I QUIT!!!!! And it felt great.

The next day I was a normal student. I went to class then home to relax and watch some good old Jerry Springer. The phone rang with a long distance ring and I picked it up. It was my best friend John from freshman year calling from Paris.
“Hello?”
“Hello there. It’s your good friend John.”
“John!!” I hadn’t spoken to him in months and was thrilled to receive his call.
“It is so good to hear your voice. How are you?”
“Good, good. What’s up?”
“Ah...nothing much. Let’s see, oh yesterday I quit volleyball and”
“You what?”
“I quit.”
“Why the hell did you do that?”

“Because I couldn’t take it anymore.”
“Oh..so then it’s a good thing.”
“Hell yeah!”
“Well good. Listen I can’t talk long cause it’s long distance and everything but there is this party I want you to go to in Montreal on December 18th.”
At the time I didn’t think about that strange invite to some party in Montreal, or think to ask the question, why me?
“A party? I don’t know if I can make it. I’m not sure when my ticket is scheduled to return home.”
“Listen, you are welcome to stay at my place, and it would mean a lot to me if you would come.”
“Well, I’ll have to check my calendar.”
“Okay.”
“So how are the French women treating ya?”
“Alright. You got my emails?”
“Yeah. So did you convert the lesbian yet?” John was notorious for going for women that, for the most part, unattainable. And somehow always managed to get them.
“No, actually I am trying to land this Vantrap chick, but she has a boyfriend in Los Angeles.”
“Really.”
“Yeah, but listen, I got to go because my card is running out but, email me and let me know if you can make it, and please try.”
“Okay, bye dear.”
I hung up the phone. It felt so good to speak to him. At the time, his voice seemed friendly, however, listening to his voice in my head now, I can hear the urgency of his tone. He missed me, and has desperate to see me.

The next day I walked across campus and decided I wanted to leave. I wanted to go and begin the deconstruction of Newanda. I knew I had to go to a foreign place, and I was going to find the antithesis of city life. I walked into the study abroad office, and sat down in the study abroad chair.
“I want to go abroad next spring.” Like leaving volleyball behind, this impulsive statement come out of my mouth with no hesitation.
“Okay, where would you like to go?”
“I don’t know...England...Ireland...Scotland....Australia....Spain.” She didn’t seem interested in guiding me through the process of nailing down a place or two for me to consider.
“Here is a book that explains the different programs. Why don’t you look through it, and come back tomorrow, and we can see what is a good fit.”
“Great, thanks!”
I walked home and started to read the information. Every program had the same perfect picture juxtaposed to a neat little paragraph describing how this place is the best place in the world to study. I realized that I was going to blindly pick a place and just go, so I did, London, England.
“London. I want to go to London.” I was back the next day in the same seat chatting with the same woman with a part perfectly measured down the side of her head.
“We typically discourage our students from attending school in London. It’s a busy place and can be an adjustment.” Was she crazy? I go to school in New York Freakin City and she thought London would be an adjustment?
“They do speak English over there?” She was not amused.
“How about Bristol. We have a great relationship with them, and have had great feedback from past students.” She sold me in a second without any further investigation on my part. The reckless impulsive behavior was shooting out of my brain so fast that it appeared to have no second to take a breath and actually think about my decision.
“Okay, Bristol it is then.”
I filled out the paperwork and was ready for my new life. I emailed my friend in England that was already abroad for a year at Oxford.

“Get ready to rage, cause I am making my way to the mother country. God save the Queen!”
Then I emailed John.
“I am off to England for next semester. I am psyched!!!!! Sorry, but I won’t be able to go to your ball thing with you but I will write once I get to England. Merry Christmas.”
Once I landed in England, I expected a cultural shock. No such luck. It was a lot of tea drinkers, and drinkers in general. I got settled in my little single dorm room, and began the life change. The goal was simple: to learn moderation. I only had a bed and a desk in my room which was isolated in the foggy bushes of bleak nothingness. I had to walk five miles to campus, and only had to take two classes, but still got full credit at my university. My life quickly slowed down and became a bit boring. I had too much time on my hands, and no one to entertain me. I would take long walks and run and pray that my surroundings would curb my internal combustion. My moods were both confused by wallowing in the dark depressed environments, and feeling like a caged animal with nowhere to go. I would kickbox in my room and blow air punches at the mirror as I watched myself in my desperate attempt to release my fierce energy. My attempt of a “life change” was not going well.

JOURNAL ENTRY – I’M BACK (THANK GOD)

I left England no better off than when I landed, except I was 10 pounds lighter and ready to spend the summer in New York. I was back in the sling, subletting a place in Harlem, and working at a mergers and acquisitions firm with way too much time on my hands. I decided to spend my downtime writing.

THAT SUMMER

That summer I kept a journal to keep track of my life, my thoughts and feelings, and did my best to forget him. And, like any girl in the post rejection stage, or any girl wanting to escape the pain of silence and feelings of what the fuck, I busted my ass to get in shape while obsessing over food, fat and weight. Slim Fast blended with ice took front row next to Tangurey and Tonic.

June 16th, 1998
I am trying to live an honest life but the more honest I am, it seems the more difficulties I find. When one is open and exposed they are left in an extremely vulnerable state, where anyone or anything can affect the condition of that state.

June 21st, 1998
I am going through something strange right now in my life, and I wish I could pin point what exactly my problem is, problem is not the correct word, but I am short of any other word. I am alone a lot and I know that is not safe, or healthy but, simultaneously, I have no desire to surround myself with people or places. I went to a bar on East 53rd and 3rd with some friends that have graduated and work in the city now and it was fun seeing them, and catching up, but the whole scene was not so grand. I always thought being young and single in a city like New York would be wild, adventures and fun, but instead I find myself talking to drunk suits and ties. That’s all they are, wallstreet boys, and victims of the ladder.

June 25th, 1998
I was so adamant about being in New York for the summer, and swore that I wouldn’t spend another summer in Los Angeles, but right now it doesn’t sound so bad. I think my family hates me or thinks I don’t like them, but I just needed to be away and fuck, I don’t know. I am on the verge of tears and long for my old friends, maybe even my old life.

June 27th, 1998
My roommate thinks I have obsessive-compulsive disorder and so do I. He gave me some Ritalin which I take when I feel like I need them. There I said it! I am not fucked up or anything but a little hyper and out of control sometimes. It doesn’t make me a retard or incapable by any means, in fact, I am highly functional. I am going to psyche services in the fall and will see someone to learn more about it, or me. I am not ashamed, just uneasy about telling anyone.

June 30th, 1998
I am at work and totally bored. I’ve realized that the amount of time it takes me to do a task takes an hour and they expect it in four or five hours. I’m not working on speed but it seems that I can complete work and such an accelerated pace that I have pretty much all day to fuck around and even then they think I work fast. Boredom is my biggest problem, and I fear this is going to slowly kill my spirit and my brain. There is only so much boredom a person can take.

July 3rd, 1998
Well, I have returned into the abyss of self-denial and betrayal and I feel like ass. I wish I could explain it but I can’t even explain it to myself. One of these days my brain will stop causing so many problems and I will be free from my mind. Yeah, right. I am sad that the summer of my dreams is almost over and the reality of life is waiting to hit me in the jaw. I take for granted that I work in a great area and live in a sweet apartment. I guess those material things are nothing compared to the loneliness I feel in this city. I still love NYC, but I wish I had someone to relish the plethora of places available to someone young and energetic. My roommate left today for England and I am forced to live alone for the next three weeks which scares the shit out of me, but maybe it won’t be too bad.

July 12th, 1998
I wake up, blend my slim fast with some cold rocks, and eat my breakfast. Blending it seems to make it bigger in the glass than alone in the can, so if you are on a mission to lose weight because THAT’S why he doesn’t like you, then try the ice. It’s good. Summer is lonely, but a healthy lonely where I am learning about me. I guess if you spend a lot of time with yourself and not by yourself you are bound to become undone.

July 15th, 1998
Today I had another epiphany. The duality that fights in the soul is golden, and realized through my heart, my brain, and passion. That’s what I know, that is all I know, and some of what I understand. I have to love myself. Smile through the black and white forces paradoxically confusing me, yet, intricate to my nature, my being.

July 21st, 1998
I made a new friend today. I was sitting in my ridiculous cube, bored out of my mind, and looked up for salvation. J, a tall, exotic, young black woman, was standing across the aisle dropping off mail on someone’s desk. I reached out to her like a child making friends with someone in the sand box.
“Hey J.” I cried out for help. She turned, and rested her arm against my desk.
“Do you have a nightlife?”
“Ah…no.”
“Well, tonight that’s gonna change.”
And just like that, my summer began. Every night we hit the scene hard. Dancing, boozing, smoking. No one could stop us. Together we were too hot to be rejected. Every club, bar, party, there was no stopping the black and white cookie. It was the perfect set up. Our work hours were twelve noon to seven so we could roll in by noon, hungover, and hit up the company buffet, guzzle Snapple all day, change in the bathroom at night, than party all over again.
It was the summer I became New York. Like most, it didn’t swallow me whole, it just took bites here and there. Every morning I woke up swearing to my grave that I will never consume alcohol again, but the devil would take over and I would find myself unable to say no. I refused to go home and be alone so spent almost every night out on the scene hitting on men like they were band-aids for my self destructive behavior. I ended the summer ready to go back to the utopian walls of academia that consumed my life and ended the boredom that was the straight jacket of my summer.

SENIOR YEAR CAN KISS MY ASS

School started and classes were coupled with heightened anxiety. I had practiced Ashtanga Yoga all summer to help release the consistent anxiousness that possessed every second of my existence, and now I found it hard to juggle five classes and find time to practice yoga as much. The pulsating anxiety coupled with the question ‘What are you going to do when you graduate?’ wasn’t helping much. I felt like saying in response, please go fuck yourself. I am 22 years old and have no idea so back off. Unfortunately, that answer was not acceptable. It seemed that the entire world was centered around getting that first perfect job out of college. All the wall street boys were dropping resumes at Goldman Sachs, Morgan Stanley, Chase Bank. You name it, they did it. One of my roommates had Goldman and every other bank whoring themselves out to get him and the other with his perfect 4.0 had to choose between the first, and second ranked investment companies on wall street, and John, my third and final roommate, had plenty of choices as well.
Being an English major, I was in denial that I was fucked. There seemed to be only two jobs available for my English ass: A teacher, or, I could fill a cubicle in some big-ass office, pushing papers and making spreadsheet for the big guy chillin’ on his yacht smoking cigars, catching marlin and making a few “business” calls while the helmsman stirred the ship. Yeah, well, no thanks. Don’t get me wrong, I interviewed for everything: advertising, publishing, public relations. But none of it was for me. And I was not what you would call the ideal interviewee. Most of the time the interviewer sat there not sure. Just, not, sure. I was stuck in a suite full of over-achievers who knew exactly where they were headed, and had the means to get there, and I was left clueless and scared in my dorm room. That chummy ‘You can do it smile,’ trying to pretend I had it all figured out and was not stressed at all was fading fast. I also looked like a dike in a suit.

I’M OUT AND IT’S ON - 147 EAST 77TH STREET – MAY 1999

“Which one do you want?”
“I don’t know, I don’t care, which one do you want?”
“I like the one in the Dona Karen personally.”
“I knew you would. He’s already talking to me, so, do you want to instigate the pass off?”
“Sure.”
I flushed the toilet, wedged myself in-between the two girls, and quickly washed my hands. I exited the bathroom and searched the room for J. She was living in Brooklyn and we managed to stay friends that senior year and now we were back living in the city enjoying life together. The club was booming. J and I walked around and scoped out the crowd.
“Let’s get drinks.” My usual suggestion. We wrestled our way to the bar and smiled at the bartender.
“What can I get you girls?” He was cute, not hot, but cure enough to be a bartender in New York.
“I’ll have a martini and,” I looked to J.
“Red wine please.” We got our drinks and chilled at the bar.
“I’m tired of hitting on guys.” I complained to J.
“Then don’t, I don’t.”
“Yea, but there are so many cowards in this town. I don’t get it.”
“Maybe if you showed some patience.”
“I don’t know what that is.” I smiled and downed the remainder of my drink. One drink wasn’t going to do much for me, but I hadn’t eaten much that day, just the usual: tasty delight and a block of Parmesan cheese.

Several hours later, I was stumbling home, convinced I was walking a straight line, as my mind raced through the events of the night. I climbed the four floors to my apartment, and managed to make some concoction of tuna fish, tomatoes and pasta, which I wolfed down before I hit the hay, literally.

JOURNAL ENTRY – JULY 17TH, 1999

I am exhilarated and lonely. I am living in my shitty little studio and it is very strange because I never thought it would be what it is, which I don’t even fucking know. Life outside college is life. Everyday is a new diet mixed with an old obsession with food, fat and my body. I am sick and tired about obsessing about my stomach, my thighs and whether or not I have a defined ankle bone, but that doesn’t seem to change the fact that I do. I slightly blame America for my bodily obsession as it adds to my mental penetration. My biggest finger points to my Mom because she fed all of us way too much to compensate for her own anorexia and, as a result, we have never had a normal understanding of food. When I say ‘we’ I mean myself, my older sister and my younger sister, all of which suffer severe food issues.
My stomach HURTS. It always has to be all or nothing with me, so now I am stuck with all and an unhappy overdose of food in my body. I have decided that I want to marry have a family and the whole nine yards. So I must lose weight, become a model size 2 (or maybe it’s -2,) and then get some fabulous man to escort me down that long aisle to my dream life, where there are no cubicles or secretaries or any other aspects of corporate America. What I don’t get is that many men run to Wallstreet to make a shit load of money because they think this will land them a wife. Not all women associate marriage with money but I guess a lot do. The irony in the whole mess is that most of those men that start on Wallstreet to make that money to score that hot chick end up being too late because they work their asses off for several years in their twenties and early thirties and by the time they actually hit the bars or dating scene, they’ve been scooped up by some other guy who said, ‘You got a great ass.’ Yup, that’s all it took. Then, somehow, Wall boys find time to squeeze women into the picture because there are 80 year old women shopping on Madison as we speak with their 80 year old Wall street icon husbands sitting down in their corner office so there is some hope I suppose. So what if they have some putty-tang on the side. You turn away, just turn away. Hopeless.
God, what has become of me? I can’t even speak that name without wondering when I will have religion or faith in my life. Why do I think I need negative thoughts to drive me to greatness? Anger, bitterness, stubbornness. Such words seem to be valuable drivers to fame, fortune and personal physical fitness. Not love, compassion and peace. If you want to lose 10 pounds you don’t think of happy thoughts, you take a picture of that one guy that rejected your sorry ass, and plaster it to the wall next to a naked ugly picture of yourself, and you use that everyday to make you work out and drive you to a healthier happier self. So what if you use negative feelings to drive you, it doesn’t make you a bad person, just to opposite, a better person. I just don’t think that love can be the thing to save me these days, so it is out with the red and in with the black.

JOURNAL ENTRY – OCTOBER 16TH, 1999

I gave up reading Mody Dick today, because quite frankly, it sucks. I picked up D.H. Lawrence and read it in two days. Now, that’s good writing. If you have to struggle to read it, then, it is probably quite bad to say the least!
Once again I digress. I spent my entire Sunday walking the street on Columbus and the Upper East Side, and stared at people, and watched them stare at me. I am beginning to realize that we are not alone in our loneliness because everyone experiences the same loneliness. Some are just fortunate to enjoy spending time alone, and loathe the presence of others. I believe man is a creature of habit (I use the term man cause it is a saying and stupid to change such catch phrases just to be politically correct) thus, if he spends significant time alone, he is bound to get used to the time alone, and not like to be with people. I am not one of those people. I have spent time alone, and still long to share it among familiar faces. But it is not the fifties, so I can’t simply get wed to the first bachelor on the street. No, that would be way to simple and nice. Instead, I have to front a “career” for several years, earn a living, and the respect of a mate, only to surrender it all to marriage. Well that makes a load of sense. Please let me work really hard to make a career, and meet men who respect my passion only to stop one day and stand in the kitchen, and watch the water run down the grease pan while I hear the clock tick behind me three times, it’s time to pick up the kids. Well that’s not so bad right?