There was a time when I wouldn’t sleep at my Dad’s house because I didn’t want to. Now, having grown old enough to put aside the typical grudges we hold as teens, I don’t sleep there because I can’t.
For the past three years, every time I’ve tried to fall asleep in my childhood bedroom I’ve woken up in the middle of the night saddled with an allergy attack so intense its generated sounds cause my father to shoot up from bed and dart into my room at a rate faster than I’ve ever seen him move. The amount of Benadryl I take prior to going to bed only slightly impacts the amount of hours that pass before I wake up wheezing and bleary-eyed, covered in hives and almost completely unable to breathe. I have tried inhalers and high doses of Zyrtec, anti-dust mite bedding encasings and hypoallergenic sheets. My Dad has even bought a HEPA air purifier and changed the air vent in my room—twice. None of this seems to have any effect; every time I spend more than an hour or so in my bedroom, I end up completely succumbing to my allergies.
My allergist tells me that I am allergic to my dog, the dog I’ve had since I was a kid. I got him for my 9th birthday, and before going off to college I never had any issue with pet allergies. But according to my allergist, this is a very normal occurrence—often times kids go off to college and come back completely allergic to the pets they grew up with. Aside from learning from your mistakes and having a higher tolerance for your parents, “growing up” apparently also entails developing a hyperactive immune system incapable of withstanding childhood comforts.
I wrote about antidepressants and millennial discontent for MM and convinced the other editors to let me call it “My Chemical Romance” (LOL). Check it out:
What happy people don’t know and what sad people won’t tell you is that happiness–brash, unapologetic contentment–takes some getting used to. You do not shoot upright in bed one morning and think, “Oh, now I am happy.” It’s a mollasses process, slow, a kind of emotional osmosis; one week you are crumpled in a laundry heap crying because you cannot find your favorite pair of red tights, and the next you are at the breakfast table kissing someone your heart swoops jaggedly for, toast tumbling awkwardly out of the sides of your mouth. For someone used to cataloging and analyzing emotions, appreciating happiness as I feel it does not come easily: I’m much better at picking at the seams until I am standing in a puddle of yarn, unable to remember what it was that made me happy in the first place.
Arriving at contentment is like relocating to a strange city; I know a lot about the latter and practically nothing about the former. Here I am in San Francisco, with two suitcases, dirty hair and my black and white cat. Here I am at happiness, relearning how to sleep beside someone and booking two plane tickets and calling my father to say, “I think I love him.” (To which he replies: “What’s this boy’s social security number?”)
Sorry for the lack of posts last week– I went on a much-needed “staycation” this weekend, complete with a room on the 33rd floor of a five-star hotel (thanks, Hotwire!), and subsequently went off the grid for a bit. I’ve been having trouble balancing my job, editing/writing/doing PR for Millennials Mag, having a social life and finding time to write for myself. I’m hoping the holidays will grant me some much-needed essay writing time.
In the mean time, we’re frantically prepping for issue two of Millennials Mag, which drops one month from today on December 15th! The theme for this issue is #modern love. Click on the banner to learn more about the issue. Submit pitches to millennialsmag AT gmail DOT com. Woo!
It is October and we keep trying to escape the city. One night we drive out to the Marin headlands and park the car on the edge of a cliff. The north tower of the Golden Gate Bridge is right there. I can hear boats sounding their horns from out at sea. Everything is foggy and spooky in that ethereal way San Francisco does so well. He hugs me from behind and hooks his chin on my shoulder, like teen girls dream about boys doing in grown-up relationships. I am learning not to run. ”I like you,” he says. “I like you too,” I say. We move slowly, fiercely protective of our hearts. He is so patient it makes me want to cry.