Up on Floor Four
Befriending My Destructive Behavior
Sweating in my prehistoric fourth-story apartment, I can’t seem to shut it all out. The highway below my window. July humidity. The scraps of clothing spread across the kitchen table of my attempt to sew the failed straps of a newly thrifted halter top only an unpaid garment worker would attach. The customers who never know what they want yet demand I be the one to fix it. The money in my bank account that slowly dips its toes in the wrong direction. I look at my cat perched upon his thrown high above my freshly vacuumed carpet. Freshly vacuumed because cleanliness seems to be the only form of control I possess as of now. Do you think life would come with more ease if our only cry was for our wet food at three in the morning? Well, it doesn’t matter, because I have greater plans for my demise today such as trashing my entire room with unfit outfits and overpriced mezcal margaritas.
What better way to take the edge off?
A short five hours and shoes that make your feet ache later, I found myself standing in the middle of my local bar with the blue-eyed blonde bartender who dealt me the nickname “buddy.” He’s dressed in an old Harley Davidson t-shirt with his bike out back to prove he’s no poser and his vintage hat reveals its own story of once belonging to an aged veteran who smoked at least two packs a day until recently meeting the insides of a washer and dryer. It’s not one of those elegant chop houses with chrome leather seating and crafted cocktails based on the season, here the distressed panel walls and toothless regulars are what make the beer taste better, and that’s how I like it.
The night was young as my drink and I had only made it to first base with a fresh game of pool on the horizon and thoughts not ready to accept the fate that comes when faced with my pillow. At this point, my only excuse to head home was my cream furry child of a street cat and a 9 am work call looming over my shoulder, which quickly turned into a lovely day of mumbled words and greasy food.
To be frank, I like the escape. The party. The nonsense. The depth that comes when colliding with strangers whose faces I’ll forget by morning. It’s where life seems to dissolve while the world is put on hold. It’s where I grew up and where 15-year-old me found solace. I remember throwing my first shindig at the ripe age of 16, lying to my out-of-town parents that I’d taken up reading. Upon waking, my parent’s basement had been redecorated with a life-size hole from some partygoer. I was barely a teenager and already emerging as the hellion I promised myself I’d stray from, snapping pictures of every detail down to the TV remote the hour leading up to the affair for the return of everything to its rightful place, with the now exception of the ominous black hole in the corner waiting for my sentence.
Have you ever heard a neighbor or parent muttering something about ‘old habits die hard’? In my experience, it’s taken a little growing up and my own involvement in the ring of fire to comprehend what this means, and, well, I’ve recently come to terms with the role old habits play in our lives while driving home in the wee hours of the morning. Those specific hours where all deeming thoughts seem to breathe.
The thing is, we work tirelessly to become this better thing, person. Less wrong if you will. Pretending our old habits are now in our past, and convincing those around us that we are no longer that individual. That we are cured of all previous faults, but this is where we are wrong.
I have this recurring dream where I find myself perched by the pond of an old French estate on the hillside. Bluegill and bass swim the water as the oaks wallow in the midmorning sun and at the end of the drive sits one singular dirt road towards who knows where. It’s one of those beautiful homes you would hope to make your own someday or have even half the money to restore, but as I sit outside embracing all its glory, the emergence of what’s inside makes itself known. I’ve only been brave enough to cross the border once, climbing the old creaky stairs to flour two, only to be told that what is waiting for me is on flour four.
You have to wonder, is it a luxury to float through life unattached to the actions we so easily plunge ourselves into? Maybe it is as I sit here riding the old habits that dug me deep into the dirt once before, and that’s why I’m fearful — because I’m now conscious of the place they took me. Is that the line we choose to ride when we pick old coping mechanisms? A sliver of our punishment to watch the memories of past immerse themselves with our present as if one. I want to know, how do we continue to bury ourselves in hell's past? Dealing with patterns we thought we shook off our very core that now seemingly reappear as if we never put in the work… because here's the catch, at some point, we know this is no longer for fun as the thoughts still chase us from our pillow to greet us in our wake. It’s one of those moments when you realize you’re in too deep. A moment once thought to be fun turned into a recollection of consequences that you cannot stray away from. The type of pattern you believed to once have control over until the full scope comes to light. It’s a funny thing, pushing your boundaries. Once. Twice. Noticing what was once a voluntary act has now turned requirement, pushing away the gut instinct that makes your ears bleed “no”.
Can I keep getting away with this?
Is there such a thing as a breaking point?
The thing is, our past patterns are so readily alive and hiding behind closed doors, eager to creep back in given the chance and I’m realizing the true test of life is developing enough grit to acknowledge them for what they are, a part of us. How can we move forward if our first thought is to shame ourselves for handling situations the only way we know how? Sometimes we’re so deeply comfortable that we’re unaware there is another way, another option, and to figure that out we must meet our old habits head-on with less judgment.
One day I will make it up those stairs of that old French estate, as for now the feeling gets lighter knowing that what’s waiting for me on the fourth floor isn’t so bad. Instead of the indomitable faceless figures coming out of dormant to daunt me, they’re sifting through the cracks and hiding beneath the carpet searching for the comfort they crave. They’re a part of us all, the slivers we so easily try to erase, guilting us into believing they do not deserve the love they so desperately need. They’re what’s waiting for us, who’s waiting for us, and are the areas of our lives that are only hurting for our attention, not a dismissal.
When faced with comfortability or change, what if we learned to choose grace over shame, and discomfort over complacency? At times we may decide to stick to the beaten path because the scenery is all we know, but when the time feels right to ponder something new, I have a feeling it’s going to be wonderful, as I now like to partake in Wednesday craft nights with the people I love and the silence isn’t so bad after a long day’s work of bussing tables and steaming milk.
Old habits die hard, but next time say hello and give them a nice handshake for me.
