Vantage Point

I forgot to brush my teeth last night. No, wait. Those are words coming from a 5 year-old—head bowed, gaze lowered, mouth gnawed, feet shifting. I didn’t forget. I just didn’t. I was tired. 8 hours at the coffeeshop asking “medium roast or dark roast?” then sliding sleeves on takeout espresso drinks, and eventually making my way to the kitchen to load up a butter knife with cream cheese for the bagel.

I was tired. And I forgot—no, didn’t brush my teeth. I woke up, 11 minutes before 6am, my nose twitching from the odor left by garlic consumed in all its forms 11 hours ago—minced and mashed up with scallion bits, chopped and mixed into fermented soybean paste, sliced and roasted with jalapeño peppers.

I found out that garlic, in the absence of toothpaste, can take on the characteristics of a dead body, which, though unpleasant to think about, would’ve been fine after a good rinse except that last night marked 2 years since my final discharge from the hospital. 2 years ago. When death was more than just a foul odor.

I left the hospital with my mom. “Be good,” he said, the mental health worker in the blue uniform with hopes of making an impact on the state of public health in this country. He never meant his words to be a command, but I did my best to heed them and be good in this recovery. I built rules for myself, routines that would give me structure and keep me from being sent back to the 11th Floor of New York Presbyterian.

2 years later, I slipped up. My teeth missed a day of toothpaste and tap water. And I broke one of my rules. A rule created so that history wouldn’t repeat itself. Because there was a time when teeth were barely brushed. A time when the instinct to exist became a burden. And all of life’s other responsibilities met neglect.

I worked at a poke shop then. My mom thought the part-time gig would distract me from my endless ruminating at home. All it did was delay the thoughts. Every night, I came home with a tupperware container of leftovers from the shop. I finished about three-quarters of it before walking past the bathroom to the bed where I’d pick up my phone and spend the rest of the night asking Google whether or not things could really change for a depressed 23 year old. Apparently the average human brain stops developing at 25. At this point, I’d breathe a sigh of relief, pick at a strip of chicken stuck in the gap between my molars, and close my eyes. I still had 2 more years left to get my shit together.

I was always shaken awake by my mom who’d see my leftovers on the dining table and go on to warn me of the dangers of midnight snacking and weight gain. She’d look at my face, usually puffy from all of last night’s ingested carbs, and click her tongue as she walked off to the kitchen to prepare her steel cut oats, hard boiled egg, and carrot-apple smoothie.

I want to think that things are different now. That one night of failing to brush my teeth won’t lead to the downward spiral that was 2 years ago. Fear—of what could happen—has been my steady motivator, keeping my teeth (and the rest of my body) in check. They say it’s not good to let fear be your reason, but right now, the alternatives (family, loved ones, God, etc.) just aren’t as compelling. After all, fear does something that they won’t—trigger the memories. Me standing at the top of the parking lot, the highest point of the shopping mall, ready to jump. I thought I saw it all and I thought I knew what I wanted.

But fear isn’t the one that lets me see everything else—the two American flags waving their stripes and stars half a block away from the parking lot, the highest point of the shopping mall. The swimming pool with too many kids and not enough parents. The library my dad used to bring me and my little brother to on Sunday afternoons. I didn’t notice them the last time. And fear isn’t the one that motivates me to think about where I am today. For one, it’s coffee in place of poke. And for two, I may have skipped a night of brushing my teeth but that doesn’t mean I’m still 23 and depressed.

Sincerely, Esther