Bright Beautiful Bald Hearts of Beacon Street

I met a little boy today, who is going to change the world. I didn’t know that I needed to meet him or absorb all the wisdom he radiated until long after he left. I have this habit, one of many, to not truly treasure something until it is gone. I was not having the best day, hell I haven’t had the best day in a while, but today was particularly not up to par.

The day started waking up in another bed that was not my own, next to a man that did not truly appreciate all I had to offer, in a room that was not mine, but only feet from the first one I have called home in a while. The stabbing tightness in my neck is not from the hard muscle used as a head rest the night before but the weight of the world crashing down on me. My brain can only protect my heart for so long. Exhausted not from the casual fling, but the long-term neglect I unwillingly chose to inflict on myself. Greasy from the sweat, the only thing, clinging us together and the toxicity of the world I surround myself in. The toxicity that I pollute into my own atmosphere, the trash dumped from my parents, siblings, family, friends, and even strangers that I am left to clean. I don’t know if I will ever be able to ask them all to help me pick up the pieces of the broken girl writing this paragraph. It has been a week into my new paradise, but it feels nothing like that. I myself, swole from the challenging rewarding dream of a job that funds my not so advantageous adventures, and from carrying all of this with me, never with a break in sight. Everyone says that life doesn’t get easier, you just get stronger, but nobody talks about how muscles form. In order for muscle to grow, the myofibrils have to tear, wrecked in agony, crying for help. Sending signals to your brain, desperately seeking nutrients to rebuild and if they are lucky enough, when blood vessels pass through, they will also follow through. I don’t know if I am listening to my muscles, my psyche yearning for a sense of relief or for a resolution. I don’t think that the drinking, smoking, and men are relieving any part of my soul despite the dopamine they shoot through my body.

This little boy is so memorable because he is stronger than I ever will be; he was vulnerable. A breeze in my fifth-floor room prompted an anecdote about his ghost friend, Ghosty. Straight to the point, a skill most people never master in their lifetime. Ghosty, his bald dad, an MIT alum visiting the frat house that I seductively or sadly call home, and a fun fact about the inheritance of baldness brought out a side to Ian that was yearning to be listened to. And I hope that I heard every word he said and didn’t say. With this yard-long stick and can of seltzer resting on my dresser while he rested on one of the empty beds, he danced around the subject he wanted to share. He warmed up the room, creating a space where he could guarantee his safety. Swiftly moving to the sofa, his big bulbs of blue eyes barely made contact with mine. The beautiful brightness hiding behind the guizer of his baseball cap, the drawbridge of his heart started to lower. One of the many things I admire about Ian is that it wasn’t a wall crumbling down, but a vessel meant to close and more importantly open.

Baldness is typically inherited from the mother’s side of the family, and none of the men on his mother’s side of the family are bald, as far as he knows. But his mom’s sister was bald, but as he stated, it was caused by cancer. His aunt was pregnant with his cousin at the time, but then his mom birthed that child. That child was bread by his aunt and birthed by his mom. I shared with him that my mom too was once bald, caused by the cancer, but luckily his aunt survived while my mom did not. He did not need to be burdened with that fact about my glorious mother, because this boy too carried a heavy weight on his shoulders. The shame, guilt and love for his late grandfathers needed to be taken off along with his hefty baseball cap.

His maternal grandfather had dementia, frequently forgetting the unforgettable boy that was sitting in front of me. His mother frequently reminding the elder, though no reminder was ever successful. He missed out on the wisdom of the old man during his lucid life, but that grandfather never got to see the valiant boy who shared 25% of his DNA. His paternal grandfather was plagued with the baldness of his aunt and my mother, lucky enough to see a glimpse into Ian’s grand childhood, but misfortunate enough to decompose with his soul fully intact. Another terrifying sight to be seen by the eyes behind the baseball cap, that cap now a dam for the salty tears of his sweet heart.

I was happy to hear that his aunt survived a disease that most people do not. He was aware of this quasi-relieving fact, but forever tragically traumatized nonetheless. The loss of his grandfather revealed a great sorrow inside of my soul that I trap behind a wall and not a drawbridge. The mere moments we shared; this experience created an infinite memory in my life. One worth not only writing about but employing as the bridge in which part of my story can hopefully cross.

I have known for the past few days that I needed to “do some self-care” and decompress in therapy, but I did none of the above, instead I slept through the only hour a week ever dedicated to myself with hopes that the man beside me would stimulate the dopamine that would numb the muscles crying for nutrients inside my damaged brain. The scorching shower burned the receptors on my dermis, the bacteria baked on my supple skin, but not the miser and gruesome grime that clogged the positivity from my pores. The soft bikini style pajamas soothed my smooth-shaven skin, but not my sinking smile and sopping shriveled-up soul. The only thing close to sealing that wound is this untitled document. But Ian awakened my writer's mind and inspired me to tell his story and a sample of mine.

*****

The balloons that bounced off of the Boston brownstones brightened the bubbly balls of hope that buoyantly keeps me afloat. The blue colors of the ocean that waved boldness and its rippling independence into my life and the pigmented pink symbolizing the bravery of my mother’s baldness, reminded me of the tide of trauma that brought me to this Beacon Street balcony. Higher than thousands of people looking down on those who have wronged me and outward towards the millions I cannot wait to meet. My glorious story having risen stacks over theirs, towering over the tales of where mine was supposed to end up. The auspicious authors unable to reach me or attack me with their judgment or anger.

Yet being elevated doesn’t make me feel any more elated. I sit on this roof by myself, in my own corner on a chair, not a sectional capable of supporting any of the friends I would like to show more than my favorable sides or the family that has seen me through the unfathomable ones. I don't even know if this smooth talking, wooden chair is stable enough to support myself sustainably. The only thing keeping me afloat is the spirit in the sky that was once contained by the most beautiful women I was blessed to call mom. And sometimes I am afraid to go outside and allow her to see the women I have become. The woman who carries the weight of the world sacrificing her own strength for those who never fully return the favor. Too ignorant to see the magnification of their own actions, weak to stand up for anyone-nevermind themselves- or open their hearts to any feelings that didn’t involve their instant gratification.

Somebody who I hoped to become a very big part of my life once said that my stories all have the same somber ending and unwarranted optimistic theme. But I cannot change that without breaking the vow of genuineness I promised myself to engulf in all of my work. At this moment, I cannot see myself fully breaking my bad habits, abandoning my addictions to create the life I always imagined for myself. To break the cycle my family enclosed around me while simultaneously handing me an artisan russian roulette ladder that could rescue me or leave me even further adrift. But I hope to one day build my own ladder or perhaps destroy the cycle from within, so my future children will not be captured by the same rut that has claimed so much of my life. This story was probably one of the thousands of bricks that has to be laid down in order to follow the right path.

For the sunset behind me illuminates the future I hope to one day lead and radiates the everlasting wisdom of Ian. Thank you Ian for changing my world, and all the bold bright beautiful bald people of our lives for allowing us to access the enlightening rays of heaven. And for reminding us of your caressing presence in the clear clouds.