I AM 27. The best thing about my life without him is everything.
I am free to be. Luscious servings of sunlight spill into the room, pulling me awake. Spring has slipped into summer. I open my eyes and instead of leaping to my feet as I always do, I indulge in a yawn, a decadence so sweet I actually laugh. I stretch all four limbs and my hand grazes the book beside my solo pillow. A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf.
I’ve moved into his Chelsea apartment. There are plenty of windows for you to sit by.
Nothing feels different, yet everything is. For the first time in my life I’m living without family or roommates. And in a place that feels somewhat stable. He has put the apartment up for sale, but even so, it feels secure. May have something to do with where I am in myself.
This apartment is the fourteenth place I’ve lived in since moving to New York. He and I never lived here, so it’s clean of memories and full of possibility. With his help, I’m in a light-filled room after all, not entirely my own but wonderful still. I pay rent, contrary to popular opinion and plain law. The spouse who evicts the other spouse from their previous home is legally bound to supply the homeless spouse a new, cost-free residence. But I enjoy giving him rent. It frees me of feeling beholden to him. It frees me from the invariable arguments were I to make a case of this.
I absolutely adore living without any other person. I don’t feel alone or lonely, given that I have you and myself. I feel wealthy with freedom. I’m rich with the luxury of having only myself to take care of and answer to. Overwhelmed with joy, there are moments I can hardly breathe, bathing in this privilege most women, including Momma, never get to experience. I spend entire days of pure calm and happiness. I walk through these hours with awe and reverence like I’m in a library of rare books. My fingers trail the spines, their titles turning me giddy with what they promise: life suspended between covers, created to be realized.
Given our sudden ending, I haven’t seen (and won’t see) the Barn again. Neither will I ever see my darling mattress and box spring that graced me with rest when all else felt tremulous.
Five weeks after his phone call, he delivered some of my clothes in plastic trash bags. They now sit in a neat pile, white plastic with red ties. Finding I can’t undo his tight knots, I weasel my fingers through the plastic, making sizable holes. Most of the clothes were bought by him. Large, loose-fitting blouses and sweater dresses in navy, gray, black—he, forever trying to police and hide my body from imaginary eyes. I neatly fold his preferred clothing to give to charity and choose one of my dresses from my trusty, beloved backpack. The dress is light cotton. I wash it by hand at night and it’s dry the following morning. Light turquoise with pink roses, spaghetti straps, a sweetheart neckline that dips into a trim bodice, and a short, full skirt, down to mid-thigh. It slips over my head with the natural ease of breathing. There is a mirror balanced against the far wall. I tilt my head like a bird and measure my reflection. Just right.
My love, these days are so sweet, candy would be envious of me. I walk into the living room to write my daily thanks. There are so many. Sunlight paints my face golden. The storm has passed. Breathe.
I HAVE DECANTED my spirit, and she is blooming.
I decline invitations from potential suitors. I want only to work. I spend the day auditioning and babysitting before rushing home, my limbs tingling with excitement. Aside from my daily gratitude log, I’ve stopped journaling by hand and spend the evenings typing instead, to keep with the pace, continuing the pages I began at the Barn. They aren’t the cohesive pages of a larger work but they feel like the preliminary notes for one. These pieces arrive in the form of essays, on my childhood, anorexia, love, womanhood and so on.
Being back in the City, surrounded by masses, highlights again my lack of flesh-and-blood friends. When I’m with another person, it’s usually because I’ve been hired as an actress, model, or babysitter, to perform and give as they desire. Occasionally, I’ll grab an authentic moment with Momma or one of my surrogate Mamas, but those gifts are rare.
I don’t mind, though. I’ve learned quickly that I love solitude, the company of my own voice, and what it allows. This is my new lease on life. I can be and learn anything I wish. I book three national commercials in a month. As my drawings improve, I sell them for higher prices. I write thirty-seven songs and produce a demo with seven of them. I produce an eighth song, very different from the others. Satire in the form of rap, it’s titled “I Made a Sex Tape.” It’s a commentary on reality television, voyeurism, female objectification, and celebrity idolatry. I crowdsource funds for the music video and find the perfect director and team. We launch the video on YouTube. It garners 50,000 views and counting.
While filming the video, I spend every minute amazed and endlessly grateful. One idea from my mind gathered so many people. One electrical spark made it possible for their genius to shine, and the harmony of our voices has created something that will live on its own. A piece of art has that gorgeous quality—it’s an ever-evolving alchemy, open to endless interpretations, giving every viewer or reader what they specifically need. I look around the set and think, If this is my last job in this vein, I’ll be completely content.
Miraculous, the results when we allow ourselves to grow. At night, snug in the slim dip in the mattress, deep and wide enough only for my body, I listen to the buzzing stillness. The quiet hum of limitlessness sounds like the song of cicadas. I sleep and wake up smiling, ready to move in my delicious frenzy.
For years, I have wondered about the meaning of my name but never answered the curiosity. One night I look up my meaning. In Persian, Reema means poetry. In Sanskrit, Reema means limitless.
I WRITE PAPA, ASKING, Can we please talk about you and me, our family, and everything that has happened? I want us to be close. For that to be, there is pain we need to address and heal.
He replies he wants to love me but feels I need help for my lies.
My mind keens like a funeral song. I search myself for shock to find there is none. His truth is his, mine is mine. There is comfort in patterns, a sordid, patchwork peace. I feel the familiar feeling of my heart tumbling. I catch it before it hits the ground.
The next time, rather than falling into love, I would like to lift. Love shouldn’t feel like a descent. I’d like us to ascend. I want a fierce love and a fearless man.