ugly crying in rittenhouse square

A few Tuesdays ago, I cried in Rittenhouse Square.

More specifically, I ugly cried in Rittenhouse Square. And more detailed still, I began ugly crying a few blocks away from Rittenhouse Square, in Capitol One Cafe, the poor-man's version of a WeWork, which to my dismay has been one of few work-from-home working environments where I can concentrate for a full nine to five.

In its defense, The Capitol (as I call it) isn’t all that bad. There's free wifi and bathrooms and (if you get there early enough) free range of seats to choose from. The workers are friendly but not in a fake coffee shop kind of way, in a "we're-working-for-the-weekend-too-baby" kind of way, and the security guard wishes me hello and goodbye and happy Valentine's day.

I worked in The Capitol before the pandemic, too, but not so often as I do now. I would go there first semester of my senior year — when I took classes at Temple University's Center City Campus — and again second semester, when my schedule only consisted of two GenEds that I never did the homework for. I planted myself at The Capitol to freelance stories, interview for jobs, and map out a life for myself.

A map I hadn't followed.

I was approaching my sixth hour of screen time when the tears started to fall. And suddenly, I knew couldn't endure two more.

So I pulled on my mask and hood and tossed out my empty coffee (tea) mug and unplugged my laptop from its charger and rolled the charger into a not-too-tight loop and stacked that on top of the laptop and placed both items in the front pocket of my bag, slowly and orderly. As one does, when they're quickly falling apart.

I stood up and walked over to the stairs and then down them and around the coffee bar and out the tall golden-arched doorway without making eye contact with the nice workers or security guard. I followed my feet up Walnut Street past that lot-that's-always-under-construction and the apartment complex of that boy-who-broke-my-heart, and into Rittenhouse Square. I could see rain, but I couldn't feel it.

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When I stopped eating at age 13, not feeling became a common feeling. On rainy nights, I would slip numbly onto my roof to avoid meals; fights; thoughts, until my parents found me and dragged me back in.

“Why did you sit out in the rain,” a therapist asked once. “Did you feel cold?”

I didn’t speak to therapists at age 13.

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When I reached the fountains, I stopped walking and faced them. Then, feeling vulnerable, I turned toward the bushes instead. My tears had morphed into ugly cries by then, and they were loud and gurgly and higher pitched than I would’ve thought they should be. But other than a few passing umbrellas, there was no one in the park to judge me but myself.

And damn, she was harsh.

"Fuck you, Claire," she spat at my sobs.

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Myself.

It's strange how one can care so little for someone, but so deeply for their opinion of her. I had a conversation with my Mom about this.

"Not everybody has those thoughts," my Mom told me, of the "F you's." But I don't know if that's true. She has them, she added.

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Myself continued to curse myself, for not following my pre-mapped-out map. For not moving out of Philadelphia. For not seeing more people or doing more things. For not continuing my nine to five work in The Capitol, and also, for working there in the first place. For crying in Rittenhouse Square. For falling apart.

“Fuck you, Claire,” she said again, louder.

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When I stopped eating at age 13, I stunted my growth. Not so much physically— I’m 5’4”, but that’s taller than my pediatrician’s initial prediction of 5’1” — as emotionally; developmentally.

Not eating removed me from social circles, parts of middle school; high school; college. It messed with my hormones and organs and self confidence — some of which have healed and some of which are still broken — and it left me with a fear (a deep fear) of just how critically I could harm myself if I ever stopped again.

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That Tuesday fell at the end of eating disorder awareness week, which meant my thoughts were flooded with flashbacks to age 13. My fall, I so realized, had come with a push.

The impact of that push intensified beneath the rain. More forceful still with my lack of sleep.

And poor posture.

And post-breakup guilt.

And the loneliness of a one bedroom apartment.

And social media attacks.

And unanswered emails.

And the crippling fear that I was underperforming at work.

And the looming doom of my nearing 25th birthday.

And the soon-to-be two year mark of living through a global pandemic.

“It get’s better, my ass,” I scoffed under my hood. “Learning to feed myself means nothing if I am still staring at screens in Capitol One Cafe, and ugly crying in Rittenhouse Square.”

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“I’m so mad at myself for throwing my life away at age 13,” I told my Mom, recently.

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When I could tolerate my thoughts no longer, I let my feet drag my shoes out of Rittenhouse Square. They were new, I reminded myself, and I needed to get moving unless I wanted them to dissipate into a puddle.

Blaming my departure on my shoes was easier than admitting I was weak to my own infliction of pain, unable to properly punish myself, a coward, I decided.

I plugged my airpods into my ears and turned the volume of my music up past the limit young women are supposed to adhere to when walking alone in a city.

It wasn’t loud enough to muffle my thoughts, though, so I unlocked my phone and called my Mom. When she didn’t answer I cursed myself for calling my Mom, called my Dad, cursed myself for calling my Dad, and then called a friend.

My friend answered. Damn I have good friends.

My friend had just gotten a bikini wax. Suddenly, all I cared about was her and her bikini wax.

Bikini waxes are exciting. They are painful and invigorating and fresh and sexy and come with the promise (or illusion) that you have something to look forward to.

I tried to remember the last time I got a bikini wax. I recalled going in Summer 2020, mask on and pants off while the esthetician told me it was ok that I shaved between appointments (this time) because we were living through a global pandemic.

I let my feet drag my shoes further away from Rittenhouse Square, until I reached that dog park under that bridge that overlooked that path along the Schuylkill River that I first walked on with those friends I made my freshman year of college and more recently ran on with that boy whose heart I broke. I followed it.

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"You didn’t throw your life away at age 13," my Mom had said back, recently. "You were too young to throw your life away at age 13.”

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I let my friend talk about her bikini wax. I let myself listen to my friend talk about her bikini wax. I let myself tell my friend about my thoughts. And then, I let myself tell myself I was going to be okay.