When I was little I spent a lot of time in bookstores. Particularly after my parents’ divorce, which wasn’t messy as far as divorces go but was painful nonetheless, I saw bookstores as a place where my deep desire for solitude could be cultivated and–thankfully–go breezily unacknowledged. Bookstores are one of those few public places where nobody questions a person on their own. In restaurants or at movie theaters there’s something deeply shameful about being seen alone. If you have people in your life, why would you ever go to these venues without them? I discourage that kind of thinking, and I love going to movies alone, but it’s bookstores that I favor most because a person alone in a bookstore is a person who is okay with creating and living in their own tiny universe.
Sometime around my 15th birthday I was very lonely, lonelier even than I usually was. It was the first birthday where the celebration would have to occur in two separate places: one cake at my Dad’s house, and one at my Mom’s. When I would get hysterical–which was often, because my anxiety was pronounced even then–or worried about school or just plain sad, I’d retreat to the Borders in the small corner of Philadelphia closest to my neighborhood called Chestnut Hill. Often my mom would take me and we’d separate and spend hours digging through books. She was working through her own feelings about the divorce at the time, so she’d head straight for the self-help section. Being 15 and grasping an emotional road map drawn up by some of the most emotionally volcanic writers of all time (Kerouac, Ginsberg, Plath), I’d make a beeline for the poetry section. Kneeling on the floor surrounded by anthologies filled with words made my mind go quiet in a way nothing else could. In bookstores, I could be alone–not just physically, but mentally, too. I built a fortress made of books–Hemingway, de Beauvoir, Bukowski, O’Brien–and the OCD commands that gnawed at my brain, flaring up in times of intense stress, would fade into a quiet murmur.
It was around this time, around my 15th birthday, when I started hungering for a kind of human connection that couldn’t be satisfied by typical teenage frivolities. I wanted to be with people, but I was shy and didn’t know how. So I started to be with them ambiently, in small ways. One day the idea struck me to write notes–all of the things I’d like to say to the strangers with strained looks in their eyes–and hide them for people to find. I felt like I could brighten their day without encroaching on them or making them feel uncomfortable. I’ve always been drawn to the sadness in people; it provokes a palpable tenderness in me. Perhaps this is my mothering instinct kicking in, or just basic human compassion, but having grappled with depression my whole life I can instantly recognize that same look in anyone. At 15 I couldn’t take care of myself, but I wanted desperately to take care of others.
I started hiding the notes, with phrases like “Everything will be okay” and “You are beautiful” on them, in books around Borders. Soon, I graduated to putting them into payphone coin slots or parking meters. I didn’t know how to make myself feel better, but it helped me to know that I could possibly help someone else feel better. And so for a couple of months during that winter I hid these notes and hoped that they would mean something to someone.
Recently, I was reading an art blog, and the author’s penchant for doing nice things for strangers reminded me of those notes I used to leave. I read through some back entries, and lo and behold–it turns out that she leaves these notes too! Or at least has, at some point. Discovering this inspired me to start leaving notes again.
Today I was feeling sad, because my ex-boyfriend moved to San Francisco. Though I’m trying my damndest to move on and have been doing a pretty good job of it, there’s something sad about knowing that he’s no longer a subway ride away. I wanted to do something to cheer myself up, so I decided to leave these notes. I wrote about 30 of them and went over to the Barnes & Noble in Union Square. I slipped them into novels and philosophy books, memoirs and essay anthologies. Afterwards, I visited the kittens at Petco, and left a few of the notes in parking meters. On my way home, I stopped at my corner deli.
Who says you can’t buy flowers for yourself?
(Bookstore image via)
This was beautiful, Jess. <3
Aw, thanks John.
I visit the kittens at Petco whenever I’m down, too. Love you Jess. I hope you eventually tried that champagne..
Have you ever been to the Barnes & Noble at the Lehigh Valley Mall? They have a Starbucks in the back and there’s usually a few people sitting with a cup in there. Interestingly enough, I think there are more women there than men (this is a thoroughly unscientific and possibly incorrect observation). But libraries are a good place to be alone too (unless it’s the movie section on a Friday evening).
@Basu Hahah yes of course! The LV Mall was the one closest to my house when I lived in Allentown. Went to many a bday party at the Chuck-e-cheese there. The B&N in Union Square has a Starbucks too, but it’s such an overwhelming store that I can’t spend more than a half hour in it without going crazy.