Short Story: What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Suffer

     The world I built so carefully collapsed around me in such terrifying beauty that all I could do

 was sit and stare in wonder at the ruins of my life.

  Helplessly, I was in awe at the magnificent beauty of the destruction before me, torn down to the studs by people who claimed to have loved me, and so fast to that it held me captivated and gasping for breath. I picked the wrong people; it was as simple as that, but more profoundly, disturbingly personal when I fell, and everyone looked the other way, clung to lies, and shunned me into myself. My cries were muffled by useless utterances of how I was misunderstood even when I said everything outright. But when you tell people closest to you that they are causing you mental harm, what do you expect?
            You expect them not to continue the emotional barrage worsening the damage, but…
But reality doesn’t work that way. People care only about themselves; they forget about the good things, then drown you in your misunderstandings until you’re stepping off the metaphorical cliff to end yourself and your suffering. To put an end to your hopeless inner reprieve about being a good person to everyone, a better person than most, maybe you won’t be so fucking lonely. Instead, you realize that you thought you meant something more to the same group that buried you, rendering you effectively less than the dirt you knelt into now.
            It doesn’t matter how good you are to others or who you try to help by moving silently and never expecting or needing anyone to notice, except when you quietly ask for help. It’s being told you weren’t loud or desperate enough to warrant a reaction. Some overflow while others gasp for breath in their final moments, having learned that the greatest mistake you can make is showing you're weakness in a time of need. And they prove to you that those assholes were right, the voices in your head, that lies outweighed the good, and then you’re better off dead.
            Unloved.
            Unheard.
            Silent.
            To be loved is to be changed is a quote that still brings tears to my eyes and a tug to my heart.
            When you live life as a problem, you stop seeking acceptance and love. You simply exist in your own little lonely world, talking only to strangers and never getting too close. You become quiet, almost silent, watching or ignoring but never quite knowing if you exist or are a ghost drifting through quiet streets.
            New York City at least left me feeling complete because no one sees you, and there are too many people around to be noticed. In a city as complete and complex as New York, you know precisely where you stand; in your lane.
            You’re a nameless, faceless ghost amongst the others, drifting in and out of others' lives, barely a blip on anyone’s radar. No one cares, and you don’t expect them to. You can spend an entire week not having a single conversation with a single soul and not feel that deep-seated loneliness you run from. It’s exhilarating to exist on a plane where no one cares about you.
            Then there are the sad memories of existing amongst “friends” who don’t hear your silence call you home in a city built for escaping sad realities. And that’s where I stood, on the borderline of past and present, train to platform, stairs to freedom.
Penn Station bustled with the comings and goings of the masses. Most were in their own worlds and avoided eye contact, earbuds plugged in, eyes cast down on screens, books, or dirty subway tiles. I took everything in, eyes wide open, heart elevated at what awaited me outside.
            A new life.
            I rolled my luggage through the station, cat backpack slung over my shoulders with my somewhat dazed and sleepy tortie girl nestled inside, listening to the hum of trains, of dialects, and the click clacks of luggage wheels on tiles and falling helplessly in love each step I took to my new chapter. With butterflies flapping in my lunch-ready stomach, I step into the balmy mid-November cold and into a crowd of city-goers. After a slight pause, staring up at the skyscrapers above, the sun shining, and voices rising, I fall into step and click-clack along with everyone else while in a daze. On the wings of lunch-starved butterflies, my anxieties drift away each step from the station I walk away from.
            We will never go back, I promise us both.
            I took what I could carry and mailed the rest to where we’d be staying—everything else I sold or donated to escape the past that refused to let me breathe. I pull out my phone and type in the address; the map pulls up and directs me to the subway I need to get to Chinatown. Say what you will about Chinatown, but after living in the Florida Everglades for half my life, I would cohabitate in a cardboard box in Queens to get out of The Sunshine State. Chinatown was charming and sprawling; no one bothered me the last time I visited, and the hectic nature of the neighborhood spoke to my soured soul and sparked a bit of life back into it. It also happened to be the tastiest part of town with its dumplings and dim sum, as well as hipster bakeries and cafes that only served vanilla creamer with crafted lattes. It was afirst timers city dream, and that was alright by me.
            I dipped down the subway access and hauled my luggage down, jarring my poor cat in her bag if the soft growling I heard was her and not a random subway dweller. Once we piled into a car, we swayed along to metallic clings; I set my precious girl on the rolling bag to get a look at her.
            With ears pulled back, I cooed her name.
             “Oh, Penelope.”
            She sniffed as if to tell me what I should do with her given name, but I was caught off guard by someone who sat nearby, opposite us.
             “What a sweet baby, Penelope?” The older woman grinned. I wasn't used to casual chats on city transit, but I couldn’t help but muster up a smile. Of hope.
             “Yes, ma'am. It's her first time in the subway and the city.” The poor old girl had a lot of firsts this week.
             “She looks like she’s at her leisure,” her toothy grin beamed, a balm on my calloused soul, “you’ll both do just fine here.”
            I smile and take her for her word, needing at least that to get through the first week alone. On the plane, I deleted all my emails, texts, and phone numbers. On the train from Albany to the city, I deactivated my social media accounts while Penelope sat in my lap enjoying the sunshine. I checked things off my checklist and then added a couple more, one of which was to change my phone number as soon as humanly possible.
            I cut all my ties because I needed a clean break, with no one available to fall prey to once again, to delete all the evidence of my past life and get rid of the temptation to try again. I wouldn’t fall for all that like I did several times before. When people show you who they are, trust them, then run as fast as you can. It was better to run; I kept telling myself as I lifted a hand to say goodbye and walked back onto another waiting platform full of rushing bodies and the musty smell of the steamy underground.
            Running kept you alive.
            I lift Penelope back onto my shoulders, wedge myself and my large luggage case through the crowd, and let them carry me back to fresh air and city sounds. I have no time to wait; I push through the crowd, wheels clacking when not lurching themselves into a crack.
            I’m tired, my body aches, my feet are worn to the nub. I desire nothing more than a shower, than to let Pen out of her kitty carrier and let her roam our artsy studio apartment with its astronomical rent that would be well worth the peace it will afford and eventually represent.
            Then, in a matter of minutes, in the whirlwind of time, running, movement from all four corners, we were there. Like the crowd split in two and homed in on the door. The metal latticed door with its padlock and Asian menu-covered windows was the entry to my sweet salvation and a moment alone with my thoughts. I glance both ways and realize I look crazy; no one cares that I’m here, a blip of a soul on the sidewalk in front of a six-story walk-up. No one cares as I slide my key in, jiggle it, and open the door. No one cares that I struggle up three flights of stairs with a cat strapped to my back; as long as I’m quiet, the signs up the stairway inform.
            No one cares about the packages piled up outside my door, one of which is a foam mattress compressed to a inch of it’s foamy life. No one cares when I open the door and proceed to slide everything else in because as long as no one knows I exist, I simply don’t.
            So, once I’m inside my third-floor studio, I take Pen from my shoulders and lean against the door before I sink to the floor with Penelope held against my chest.
            Even with the faraway city sounds, the creaks of old oil radiators kicking in to break the chill from outside, and the creak of the floor as I come to sit on it, I couldn’t help the well of tears in my eyes and the knot forming in my chest.
            If I succeeded in anything, it was in the here and now, having effectively run away from everything I once knew. When there wasn’t anything left tethering me to the past or the inkling of a future in my old life, it scared me at how fast I packed and left before the sadness took me out. So we will sit in the city's quiet silence, with its creaky floors and quiet patrons behind closed doors, while my tears flow unfettered.
            I guess the cat’s out of the bag, and it’s true what they say; what doesn’t kill you makes you suffer.
            Or something like that.