After Edouard Levé’s Autoportrait
My life is a series of closing doors. I don’t know how to be anything other than a student. I am tired of being tired, of my eyelids closing and feeling like they’re scraping sand. I joke about my medication so I don’t have to think too hard about it. I write letters to strangers in three different states because I want something of myself to be left behind. I think about death often. I’m scared to trust people; I’ve been betrayed too many times. I think I’m slowly losing myself. I’ve only found a four-leaf clover once, in the backyard of the first house I remember. I’ve never stopped looking for another. I’m terrified of my oldest dog dying, the one I have cared for since I was eight, the one I call Chicken even though his name is Jerry Pi. He’s old and crotchety and grayer than ever and when I’m home he likes to sleep as close to my pillow as possible.
I have a tattoo on my wrist in my mother’s handwriting so that I will always have a piece of her. I hate spinach and kale and any kind of squash. I haven’t had the stomach bug since my senior year of high school. I’m always comparing myself to others. Writing in fragments feels like writing panic. I take photos and videos because I don’t want to forget. I use sun-in every summer because I still think of myself as blonde even though my hair has gotten darker since age six when I donated twelve inches. I remember my mother drying my hair, calling it spun gold, holding the ruler up to it each night. I can’t sit still. Adult coloring books are stressful even though they are meant to be calming. Sometimes I hate myself. I’m scared to go home. I miss my Village Green family. My family thinks I walk too fast. I love traveling but tourists annoy me. How long do you have to live somewhere before you stop being a tourist? Sometimes I wonder if friendships are just betrayals waiting to happen.
Covid was the best thing that ever happened to me. I could read and rest and watch the world come alive again. I only loved green when the world became gray. My cry tally last year was at least seventy-five. I wonder what would happen if I ate peanuts–would I really need an Epi-pen? On bad days, I listen to sad music on repeat. Lyrics about depression medication are too relatable now. I feel safest in a bookstore with friends who can’t change or turn on me. I wish I could speak French.
I think I’m losing myself. I don’t know what I want from life even though I pretend I do. I think maybe I’m nothing. I’ve never dated anyone. I love reading romantic stories. I take pictures when I cry and pictures when I laugh. My sister doesn’t know that sometimes I’m jealous of her and her boyfriend. I wish she replied when I texted her. I went to Ed Sheeran’s Mathematics Tour twice–once in the nosebleeds and once at the barricade. My dad doesn’t know I’ve gotten in a fender-bender but it wasn’t my fault. It was a couple from Alabama wearing shirts that read ‘newlywed’ and I didn’t know what to do because no one ever taught me. I no longer listen to the band Dayglow because it reminds me of broken friendships. Everyone says they’ll stay together after graduation but it’s a lie. The first time Taylor Swift played You’re On You’re Own, Kid as a surprise song at The Eras Tour, I watched on a grainy live stream and cried. Both of my roommates were asleep. I used to do breathing treatments every night, sitting on my mom’s lap while watching HGTV.
I won’t see my female best friend for a year and that terrifies me. She wasn’t supposed to study abroad next semester but plans changed. She won’t live on campus again and what if that changes everything? In pictures from home, I see myself replaced. Sometimes I regret showing people the darkest parts of me and then I remember they don’t know the darkest–no one does. I can’t show my family my writing. I’m afraid to die–how do I know I will make it to heaven? I don’t remember what I don’t remember and that bothers me. I am the top bunk sister, the pink to my sister’s purple, the blue to her yellow. I wish people took candid photos of me and I refuse to ask because that defeats the point. I found a copy of Edouard Levé’s Autoportrait and read it obsessively. Life is a series of mundane and meaningful moments except it’s impossible to tell which is which in the moment. I used to keep supplements in an old candle container from Paddywax. I miss the traditions of my childhood. While my sister danced, my mom and I camped out in Barnes & Noble doing homework and sharing a coffee or tea. We’d cross the parking lot to Trader Joe’s just before it closed, sometimes getting mini cupcakes to snack on.
Blueberry muffins make me cry. I drank pickle juice for an entire summer. I hate being sweaty. Acne is my worst enemy. I have a black belt in taekwondo and it means nothing. I need my nails to be done–otherwise, I shred my skin. I drink more caffeine than I should. I notice people’s noses first. Sometimes washing my hair is too much effort so I just stand under the water. Potatoes are the greatest vegetable in existence. It’s me and my Stanley against the world–not that I like carrying a water bottle around. I want to move to Europe. If you hurt my sister, you’re dead to me. Sometimes I think I don’t even like writing. For two semesters in a row, I’ve cried before going to my favorite professor’s class. I’m sorry.
I bribed myself with an iced caramel latte to write this. It’s too sweet and rather thin, but it tastes like the iced caramel macchiato I used to get from Starbucks. I always said I’d go to seek the Great Perhaps. I don’t know what the perhaps was but at least I went. I’ve been sick for three weeks in a row. I think there’s mold in my shower, giving the middle finger to the bleach I’ve tried to drown it with. I wonder if my liver has turned pink from all the Benadryl and Advil I’ve eaten. My favorite stuffed animal has a hole in the nose, the one I named Woof when I was one because that’s what dogs say. Languages I don’t understand float around me in the basement of this coffee shop. I’ve never thought of using coffee cups to create the effect of a chandelier.
I don’t know why I’ll spend thirty euros on bits of glass but spending more than fifteen euros at the grocery store stresses me out. Once, I grabbed barbed wire on a reflex–I was falling. I’m allergic to cats. I prefer to sleep with three pillows. I was not born in Tennessee but I was raised there and one day I’ll make my grave there. I’m not superstitious but I painted my nails silver before exams for seven years in a row. When I learned how to Dutch braid, I forgot how to French braid. Sun-ripened and sun-warmed tomatoes are superior. For high school graduation, I asked for a fountain pen. I watch Gilmore Girls on repeat because the banter reminds me of my mom and sister. Small talk makes my hands sweat. I have never broken a bone. I used to compete back when I was a tumbler, back before I developed a mental block. Often, beautiful things are poisonous. I remember a time before being gluten-free; we used to eat Pillsbury cinnamon rolls every Sunday morning.
The bow trend reminds me of this line from the Taylor Swift song Would’ve, Could’ve, Should’ve: “give me back my girlhood, it was mine first.” It gave me permission to look the girl I used to be in the eyes. I think it’s my fault that my dog is depressed. Last time I was at the Amsterdam airport, I couldn’t stop laughing because Dutch sounds so funny to me. There were tulips and cheese but I drank a vending machine soda. I used to have a pink CD player from which I listened to the Narnia books. I’m scared of smelling cucumber melon at the farm; there could be a copperhead nearby. Roaming the fields, Timber (my sister’s dog) caught a mouse and ate it. I once had a series of pet betta fish, all named after desserts. I’m worried my brother is dead to me and I wonder if our relationship will ever be restored. Sometimes I miss him. This is the most honest thing I’ve ever written, probably because no one will ever see it again. I wish I could figure out how to restore the typewriter my grandmother found in her attic.
I only bought the second ticket to the Mathematics Tour to spend time with my male best friend. I don’t know if we’re still friends anymore. We’ve been friends since I was five and he still forgot my birthday, thought it was four days later. My birthday is not November 13th–it’s the 9th–and somehow he forgot both dates. My brother canceled Spotify Premium and that shouldn’t upset me so much but it meant my playlists disappeared and with them whole chapters of my life and I don’t know why I can’t stop crying. The nothingness in my head is too loud, like the static screen on those old TVs, and I can’t drown it out without ads that feel like they’re screaming at me. Pages started and abandoned because everything falls flat and why am I still bothering to try because it all feels worthless and will never be good enough.
In my sister’s car, I am the passenger princess, using her sunglasses and lipgloss, singing along to music at the top of my lungs. We take her dog on a walk and joke that she is walking me instead. I’ve been in three car accidents, only one where the car wasn’t totaled. I can see those wrecks in slow motion, one of the reasons I don’t like to drive. I almost transferred colleges after freshman year. I respect historical art because, although the women may be naked, they are allowed to have bodies, to have curves, to have a presence in the absence of voice. My last birthday before becoming gluten-free, I went to the zoo to watch red pandas and ate a McDonald’s sandwich afterward. My former best friend told me Call Your Mom by Noah Kahan was the song I needed to hear most. At the time, I told her it was You’re Gonna Go Far because that’s what I planned on doing. I felt known when I was told by an acquaintance I saw flowers and thought of you. I got my first library card when I was four and I still carry it sixteen years later which surprises the librarians.
Coffee shops that display what each coffee means are my favorites. Sitting in the corner by the door is drafty and cold but at least no one can sneak up on you. Tiny spoons are better for eating ice cream. I keep a digital diary; scrolling through it is like watching myself come back to life. I wear Chacos in all weather and Converse when I’m not. When I see rich brown soil, I think of my mother. During Covid, my sister and I spent five hours making a chalk path, rubbing our fingers raw to create a thing of beauty. I love matching pj sets and smoothing hand lotion into my skin. I think my imagination is broken. I don’t like outlining. Sometimes I’m hyper-aware of the bones in my body–particularly my nose which tingles. Reflections are fascinating–distorted but somehow more real. On Saturday mornings being a daughter is easy–sitting in silence with coffee and the Premier League. For years, I called the Everton goalie ‘pickle.’
Spring semester of freshman year, I cried for 2 months straight. It was only when the tulips bloomed that I realized “all lights turned off can be turned on.” The latest I’ve ever stayed up is 4 am. I woke up at 7 am the next morning. My self-worth isn’t in my grades but everything I’ve ever wanted to do depends on them. I’ve only seen a horror movie once–because my male best friend asked me to and no one else came. Names carry power; there is intimacy in the knowing. I don’t know why my female best friend never responds to any of the messages on our group chat but my roommate next year responds to every one of them. In 2022, All Too Well (Ten Minute Version) (Taylor’s Version) was the top song on my Spotify Wrapped. Last year, it was Champagne Problems. Sometimes this concerns me. At seventeen, I got a pair of prescription reading glasses. Every time I go to the National Library, I sit in seat 38.
I’m very good at raiding the dining hall like a bandit. I once took an entire loaf of gluten-free bread home. My sister used to wear silver jewelry but now she wears gold. When I was little, my mom drew a pink Sharpie heart on my wrist every day, a kissing hand like the one from Audrey Penn’s book The Kissing Hand. In kindergarten, I remember refusing to wash my right hand. The worst part about traveling alone is that you can’t leave your bags to get a coffee or use the restroom. I want to visit all seven continents. Nowhere is more productive than a coffee shop or as dangerous as a bookstore. When I was sixteen, Starbucks wouldn’t hire me because I didn’t have experience. Not that I can get experience if no one hires me. I wrote a poem called ‘100 Milligrams of Happiness’ and no one knew it was about my medicine, the little yellow pill I take each night.
Over fall break, I went apple picking in an icy downpour. The rental house smelled like sulfur. I carry the responsibility of my family’s name, an acknowledgment of the legacy I must carry on. I am the eldest daughter, the middle child, and I feel like the firstborn. Most of the time, I reread the same five pages–the pages that make me feel something. I skipped my junior year of high school, alphabetically graduating before my brother. I don’t know why I’m not homesick. Paper straws are ridiculous–the rest of the cup is plastic anyway. Pierced by its paper straw, my coffee cup has a picture of a sad turtle. Case in point. My parents disagree when it comes to global warming. I’ve only heard my father curse once. Because of his job, my dad wasn’t allowed to comment on Oppenheimer (2023). I say I only have one grandparent but that isn’t true–it’s just that we don’t talk to my paternal grandparents and my mom’s dad gives me an ick.
I don’t have a continuous stream of thought–I’m either counting to eight or singing song snippets constantly. I tried therapy but it didn’t help because it was an endless litany of ‘what are you thinking?’ If someone tells me a street name, I’ll look at them blankly. All I know is that I turn by the blue house. I’ve spent most of my life sleeping in a twin bed. My elbows hurt randomly. The introduction of pi broke math for me. Wearing makeup too long makes me tired, eyes scratchy and watering until I’m left looking like a raccoon with a black eye. I miss the days when I could read in the car without feeling sick. My sister and I each wear a gold band on the fourth finger of our right hand, my mother’s original wedding bands. I wish I had an excuse to wear floor-length dresses. I’m tired of missing people who voluntarily walked out of my life. What if six-year-old me was wrong?
Stuffing is the best part of Thanksgiving. I don’t like lemon meringue pie. I love wearing overalls but they make me feel fat. Calling a sandwich a toastie is adorable. Sitting criss-cross-applesauce is uncomfortable but I can’t be bothered to sit in a chair normally. My bones itch. I keep buying books even though I don’t read them because their presence is comforting. Sometimes I try to make myself think when I’m walking. I don’t know if I look mysterious or insane. I hate Shakespeare but love his insults. A picture is worth a thousand words but I tell the stories anyway. Wax seals are dramatic and beautiful and should be used more than they are. Why are stamps so expensive? I keep a paper trail of my life under my bed. In my freshman year of college, numbers were comforting, sources of stability. My sister burned all my candles when I left for college. She keeps wearing my pink sweater. How can I love people enough to take a bullet for them, but never speak to them? I have the same initials as my father, one of the reasons I have always wanted a PhD.
I want to see elephants in the wild. I am skilled at falling up. Once, I fell down the stairs while holding my dog. I protected her before myself and thought it meant I’d be a good mother one day. I wonder if I’ll marry. My measure of success has always been when I can afford the Breville espresso machine I want and when my home is filled with fresh flowers. Also when I can afford the Miss Dior perfume which I always spray on myself in the airport. I cannot drink a cappuccino after 11 am even though they are my favorite–it’s a rule I’ve always followed. My life is populated by strangers I used to know everything about.
I still follow people on social media even though we’ve fallen out because I’m curious about their lives. I wish someone would tell me what I did wrong. I’m scared of falling but I wonder if I would fly first. I can’t focus on movies anymore so I rewatch the same ones over and over. I see the world in black and white. Coming home sometimes makes me feel empty–as empty and cold as the house smells when the heat has been off and no one inside for a month. I prefer comforters to quilts but think quilts carry heritage. I feel like I’m trapped in 2020 even though it’s been four years. My favorite numbers are five and seven. I started grocery shopping with my mother so that I could spend time with her in fifth grade–it became a Sunday ritual followed by a sneaky sweet treat on the way home. I hate mixed metal in jewelry–gold and silver don’t go together. In the summer, sweat pools under my legs in the car and I remember why I don’t like black cars.
I believe there’s a difference between social drinking and conversational drinking. My friends have tea time on the floor of my dorm room. I want my own teapot, not just a kettle. Memoirs fascinate me because I’m nosy. I cried in my sixth-grade art class. I collect lotion from hotels. To me, airports are lonely, but to others they are places of homecoming and homegoing, running into people’s arms and away from something in the past. Hot coffee goes stagnant and stale too quickly unless I sip continually. This, of course, is a problem when I am alone. I have a record of every book I’ve read since third grade. I once tried to play tennis and failed epically.
The year I played soccer, my mother bribed me with lime slushies. I got away with elbowing a kid in front of the ref. I don’t like the movie La La Land (2016). When I was homeschooled, my dad once made us a science lab with dry ice. We pretended we had cauldrons. When I was eight, I wrote the exact time I finished The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett in my diary. The world is funnier upside-down. I despise going to the gym. No matter the weather, I would rather take a walk outside. I stub my toe over nothing at least once a day. I will miss the convenience of living in a city. I am very good at keeping secrets. I haven’t cried like this, knees curled to my chest, since my brain broke last year. I used to check the weather obsessively. I nicknamed my dog Potato but her real name is Sophie. Blue eggs are better than brown eggs. Iced coffee is better for productivity because you can drink it more slowly over a longer period of time. I miss the redheads I used to babysit and I should have reached out when I was home, but now it’s been two years and I think it’s too late. My mother always told me to trust my gut. Loud children in museums annoy me. Sometimes I’m happier by myself because I don’t know what to say to others. Last semester, I scared my female best friend when I stopped answering my phone, leaving texts on read, and rejecting calls. Later, I learned she wandered campus looking for me because she knew what happened last year.
I do not like brass instruments. Years ago, I heard the main theme of Schindler’s List (1993) played on the surviving Holocaust violins. Crunchy brown sugar is superior to white sugar. Notifications make my heart race. This was only supposed to be an exercise and now I can’t stop writing. I wonder if that’s what Edouard Levé felt like. I hate Moodle. I wave at security cameras and wonder if it makes people smile when they watch the tape back. I misspelled the word ‘dots’ in the spelling bee, leaving in the first round. The next year, I won second place. I had to leave home to want to return. I say ‘Appalachia’ differently than other people, carrying my heritage in my throat. If something is free, more likely than not I will do it. I want to go skydiving. I once fell out of a tree and hit my head. A bike helmet saved me from a concussion. I have never been so unmotivated in my life. I have a scar on my hand from trying to open a block of cheese. From fifth grade to eighth grade, I made breakfast and school lunches for my siblings.
My mother is allergic to thieves essential oil. I think it smells disgusting. I’m surprised when people like me. I met my female best friend when she wrote her phone number on a napkin and handed it to me while I was eating lunch alone. I couldn’t get tickets to The Eras Tour. I love the idea of nicknames but I hate the ones I’ve been given. I used to have a friend who never used the word hate. I like dry eggs, not runny piles of goo–I call them pancake eggs. Brown sugar and butter sauce is only for special occasions; I drizzled it on my homemade French toast. I don’t particularly like pulp in my orange juice. Coffee is bean juice and cold pizza is a sandwich. Ketchup is a smoothie. Maybe my worst enemy is my relationship with food. I wonder if anyone thinks I’m strange for sitting in a corner laughing to myself. Why do toilets in Europe have door codes? Sunsets are more reliable than sunrises but sunrises bring the most life. One day I’ll return to Paris. Why is it so hard to find gluten-free food in 2024? When in doubt, add more spices. Sometimes I cook under the influence of my Italian grandmother. I don’t have an Italian grandmother.
I thought I was done with math forever and ended up tutoring it for a semester. Having grown up in academia, I’m aware my thoughts aren’t valid unless they’re in Times New Roman, 12 pt font, double-spaced. I don’t think I’ve ever had an original thought. Matching tattoos are heartbreaking–reminders that nothing lasts forever. I’m getting tired of cooking for myself. No matter where I end up, I will always say I’m from Knoxville. I could say ‘I want’ a thousand times and it would mean nothing. Petrichor is my favorite word. I am very good at guessing when there will be a rainbow. If there was a monster under my bed, I wonder what he would say. Why are fairytales so interesting? I think home is all of the exits I used to take. Expanses of nothingness fascinate me. It’s taken me two hours to finish this coffee and I think I’ll go home now, home to my small flat in the Liberties in Dublin–not the house being built at the farm in Paint Rock Valley or the apartment I will share next year with my college family. Home is where I am, but also where I am happy.
Anna Stowe
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