the soft brown chair by the window, overlooking Fulton Street, holds me tonight.
I come here most weeks for therapy, and for a little while, the world outside feels far away, almost like the air in here belongs only to me.
my hands won’t stay still. my thoughts circle around themselves, heavy and jagged.
depression and addiction braided together, two storms that won’t separate.
when I sit here too long, my mind drifts to the ball field on Kent Avenue, named for Roberto Clemente. I go there now and then, mostly after dark, to lean against the fence and watch the airplanes pass overhead.
sometimes I imagine lying there on the grass, staring up at the sky, breathing the night air. it’s the kind of place that quiets the noise in my head. I can just be there, and it feels okay.
but in the chair, the first things to come up are never peace. it’s shame for what I can’t hold together. fear that people will look at me and only see a mess and cancel me right away. grief for the pieces of life that slipped away while I tried to keep standing. and sometimes anger: at myself and the way no one seems to understand.
when I can finally name the feelings, they settle a little. I can sit with them and look at them.
maybe that’s all I can ask of myself, to lie still long enough for the noises to quiet and remember that I’m still here.
this song came after one of those nights.
clEmenTe if the space between our mouths does not dissolve / I can’t promise that I won’t fall down / & then lie there / in Roberto Clemente at twilight / between third & home / with chalk in my hair / thinking I’m the one with nothing / who always loses everything
cookie nieves 
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