kiss the joy as it flies
an optimist's guide to numbing out
on saturday night i sobbed outside a bar for the first time in… years (ever?) i don’t cry. i’ll maybe tear up from time to time, but a SOB? never. i yearn for a sob, i beg for a sob, i plead for a sob, but it never comes. i’ve been through many a sob-worthy moment, yet every time try to cry i just sit there numb until i have to get myself up and move on with the rest of my day. the funny thing is that nothing actually happened to instigate my sidewalk tears, i had an absolutely fantastic night. maybe it was the warm weather, maybe i’m going through my saturn return, maybe i am just simply dealing with the pent-up consequences of my calculated placidness (maybe it was the million drinks i had… who's to say!) my personal goal for Q3 has been learning how to “express my feelings to others and myself” (i am also rolling my eyes) my therapist told me i needed to work on this, which i hate because the entire concept makes me feel like a toddler. what i hate even more is that she is absolutely right, and i am sick of being told from literally everybody in my life that i am “hard to read” as if i were written by william faulkner.
i am still sniffling as i walk home through the streets of soho alone at 3 am (i know, i shouldn’t do this!) i pass gigantic flagship stores that look oppressively empty making me feel strange as i catch the outline of my shallow breathing in the glassy reflections. more tears. i reach inside my handbag looking for a cigarette only to discover i had lost my beloved bedazzled hello kitty lighter at some point in the night. more tears. a girl outside fanelli’s shouts at me, “i hope you’re okay, you look so chic!” more tears. various men on the street tell me they’ll make me feel better. more tears. a drunk woman stumbles by and tells me i look like “a pencil.” more tears. i get home and crawl into my bed without taking my makeup off, i glance at myself in my dusty bedroom mirror and think about how i unfortunately do look pretty chic in my silk tiger print pajamas and mascara smudged across my face.
i woke up the next morning dehydrated and salty with only 20 minutes to pack for my amtrak train home for easter sunday. in a daze i threw everything i own in a suitcase stepping around the physical and metaphorical mess that i’ve created. i somehow get myself on the train still without drinking any water, my seat mate next to me looks me in the eye and says, “are you okay?” i reply, “yes.” with a deadpanned expression, she looks deeply unconvinced. i get up to go to the bathroom and look in the mirror horrified at my red, puffy face illumined in florescence wondering how anyone could ever stomach me. i finally arrive to childhood home and do what i do best: push down my feelings and put on a pretty dress. i sit down with my mom as she tells me stories of her of waiting in an egregiously long line for the best honey baked ham in philadelphia, i notice myself smiling as i am cast in her glow. my dad goes into intricate detail about the new central air system that was just installed in the house, i listen as if it is the most gripping story i have ever heard because for that moment it was. i run around barefoot in my backyard playing with my little cousins, envious of their power to easily create their own little world. i eat pigs in a blanket and blueberry muffins and the Iconic Ham and sourdough bread in the shape of an easter bunny and a chocolate cake that my mom decorated with jellybeans. my sister and i lyrically laugh together, unconsciously matching each other’s pitch. we talk about how much my grandmother would have loved white lotus and the pitt and gleefully discover that she used to watch reruns of survivor in her old age.
i make an effort to pause and sit in the warmth of my family, remembering when my mom came to visit me in the city a few weeks ago. we were at dinner swapping stories of summers when our family was fuller than it is now and everyone was in better health. my mom took a sip of her chardonnay and said, “we will continue to kiss the joy as it flies.” i looked up at her with a wide smile and she replied “that’s a nanny-ism*, when i came home one day in elementary school i was struggling to think of a title for an art project and nanny suggested, ‘kiss the joy as it flies’ i got an A.” nanny (my grandmother) was the ultimate dramatic optimist, she never missed an opportunity to distill the opulence of an ordinary day into a fragrant mist she would spray onto whoever was lucky enough to brush against her.
i have always proudly identified as an optimist, i’ve never considered that it could also be the source of my emotional numbing. it’s easier for me to push away good things than it is to confront my vulnerability because maybe something else will slide in its place replenishing itself as if goodness is a regenerative resource and not a fleeting moment i am lucky to experience. i would so much rather blindly believe that everything will always be fine than to sit in the consequence of my emotional cognitive dissonance. realizing this affirms my worst fear, which is that i’ve mistaken my sunny disposition for grit and i am actually so much weaker than i thought.
everything is fine and perfect i am so grateful i love my life i love my life i love my life! i repeat until i am so gorged “optimism” it spills out of me at 3 am on a sidewalk in soho.
i think i am so attracted to the idea of “kissing the joy as it flies” because it implies the finite nature of joy itself. it delicately whispers the obvious reality that good things will always come to an end, encouraging our arms stretch wide to feel every emotion before it’s too late. it’s sweet and romantic yet brutally realistic. it feels so different than the flat sugary optimism that is printed on the back of expensive sweatshirts and in the album titles of pop stars. and here’s the thing, i wish i could keep believing that everything will always be fine, thickening my skin with a glittery coating so i never have to feel anything. i will always end the day being some level of optimistic; but while i do see the proverbial glass half-full, i am also swallowing how i’ve transformed an admirable trait into a crutch to numb the prick of my emotions.
as we’re saying goodbye at the conclusion of easter sunday, my aunt comes up to me and says, “i just want to tell you how proud we are of you.” you guessed it, more tears. i hope this is the start of me melting away, i hope i still have a chance to express to friends and family and romantic partners how much they meant to me before they slip away, i hope i begin to the treat people in my life as if they are an expensive opulent gemstone instead of a disposable plastic necklace thoughtlessly won at a carnival, i hope i keep crying as if it is the easiest thing in the world to do.
it’s a strange feeling to begin the day with tears of sadness and end the day with tears of gratitude, i guess this is what it feels like to finally kiss the joy, rejection, beauty, regret and everything in between.
this was wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy more personal than i ever like to get on here, shockingly i try to not overshare details of my personal life for the sake of writing (i said try), but this meant a lot to me!
(i am also aware i changed tenses like a million times…)
*in addition to being a nanny-ism, “kiss the joy as it flies” is from the below william blake poem. it’s gorgeous, enjoy muffins
He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy
He who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sunrise
thank you for reading xx
This is beautiful! 🥹
Perfect read for this morning, loved it.