It is sunny every day this far south, not a whisper of the Biblical flood that drowned the city so many years ago. The name of the neighborhood you are staying in is French and it makes you feel at home. You are not home but you love it — the brilliant shutterboard, the palms and jasmine, the sun, the sun. You did it again, didn't you, that thing you do when you can't stand your life — got on a plane as soon as you could afford it, escaped the things that weigh.
You did not escape everything. There are pills to take when you wake, with the delicious things you stand in line for. There are stretches for your fighting body every morning and evening, in the unfamiliar bed with the unfamiliar light streaming in. There is the ache at the base of your spine that never goes away, that grows like a threat as the streetlamps come on. There are tests and appointments on the calendar that you keep trying to put out of your head — just one more day, please, you beg, just let me have this. You are trying so hard to keep from falling back into the dark, the recurring nightmare. For you, escaping is a constant. Running away is never one-and-done, never over.
But for now, you are still in the dream. So you eat the things you want, and you turn and let him take the picture, and you try to remember you are allowed to be happy. You deserve it, even. Maybe now more than ever.
At first, New Orleans felt like just that: a dream. I could wear a jacket and an open collar without flinching at the wind. I ate like I was never going to see food again, things I had never tried, things I had been missing. I walked and walked and when the familiar ache in my body crept up, I could reasonably ignore it.
The second day, I came back from a morning out and about and my body rebelled in scary ways against my indulgences. It hurt. It was graphic enough that I had to document it, for whichever doctor I would inevitably visit. I spent an hour howling in the fetal position, making tearstains on the quilted blue bedcover, debating whether to go to an urgent care.
This happened about fifteen minutes after this photo was taken and posted to social media. Some part of me had been triumphant: it felt good to share something that so radiated my joy. Look, it felt like saying, I am well, I am happy, I can travel again, I am not just the girl who talks about being in pain.
At the same moment that my phone was chirping with notifications on the photo — comments with heart-eyes and “so cute!”s — my boyfriend was stroking my hair while my gut twisted and sobs wracked my ribcage. On top of being urgently and physically ill, I somehow felt like a liar.
Soaking up New Orleans sun, with no idea of the pain & panic that would shortly arrive.
It wouldn’t be the only moment like that on the trip. One night on Frenchmen Street, trying to differentiate the music wafting from every open bar door as we waded through knots of people, my boyfriend’s eyes went glassy. “Can we go somewhere else?” he asked, his voice pulled taut. I recognized what was happening, the sensory overload that was pressing down on him. We ducked into one of the quieter bars, but after a mediocre cocktail, the pressure on him seemed to worsen. So we walked through the dark, back to where we were staying. It was there, cups of tea in hand, sitting and talking, that the noise finally faded — and with it, our plans to catch any of the shows on Frenchmen.
These are the things we try to forget. Things that go unphotographed and unmentioned. We want to live in the good photos, the sunshine smiles and sweeping landscapes and mouthwatering spreads. And I think we were editing ourselves and our memories long before devices came along. We smooth our stories over, ironing out the creases like they were never there: The heart-buzzing concert, but not getting terrifyingly lost on the way there; the gorgeous new city, but not the men yelling sickening things from a passing motorcycle. Imagine, too, how much stronger the will to forget becomes when we experience something truly traumatic.
It makes me think of the way a pearl is made. It starts when some kind of irritant gets into the oyster shell, and in self-defense the oyster coats it with layer after layer of nacre. It goes on like this until the threat gleams, looks nothing like the intruder it was.
I have felt a pinprick of guilt in telling these pearly half-truths. I tell myself it’s a protective instinct, my memory shielding me from reliving my worst moments. I tell myself a lie of omission hurts no one, not even me.
But now that feels like a half-truth, too.
When I came back from New Orleans and friends asked how the trip was, I noticed something. I told them about the fantastic food, the dreamlike streets, the buskers who outshone most musicians in an intuitive sort of way. And I also told them about that scary hour in the fetal position, and my boyfriend’s anxiety kicking in on a cramped and raucous Saturday night — the moments themselves, and the things we had to miss out on because of them. I told them everything because it felt like the only way to tell it. Story is my most primal language, I’ve realized, to leave holes in what happened — to do the story injustice — is to do myself harm.
I am not proposing we live-stream our dark moments, or wallow in things that can’t be changed. But I also can’t protect myself from everything. If being in pain more days than not has taught me anything, it’s that the thrilling moments and the agonizing ones not only coexist, but also often follow each other in quick succession.
Think back to that oyster shell. Not only does it harbor the pearl, it also created it. To deny the existence of the one dulls the glow of the other.
Smooth luster and sharp edges. And. Not or.
