Time Better Spent

Sprawled out on the rug in front of my fireplace on an early evening, not surprisingly, I am opting to keep the living room’s recessed lights off. Bright lights disturb me. Ambient lighting also perturbs me. Skylights are unwelcome reminders of not having everything in your control, reiterating that mother nature will act at will, even when squarely enclosed by a ceiling and walls, negating her temperamental angst, like precipitation; sheltered from the elements.

There was a time, long ago, when my morning routine’s initial step would be to open the window blinds and let the light in, whether that be from the reflective beams on snow mounds or puddles on overcast days, or sun rays perforating fluffy clouds in the Tropical Skittle variety-blue. That was ages ago. I lived in Queens, then. I lived a few blocks away from Long Island and not in the thick of the most diverse pocket of the country, and yet even living in the thicket- on the fringes of New York City -my pulse was in tandem to the blaring music from passing cars, the dribble of basketballs on the pavement, the occasional creaking of iron fences so unlike the quietude of a picket fence. I could still hear the squeals of children playing outside, walking to and from school unlike the yellow-bus drop-offs on Long Island. I could hear kitchen cabinetry from open windows, so unlike the soft-close cabinets that single-family Nassau County households mandate.

I prefer the type of ambience invoked by restaurant interior design, the ‘intel’ of which suggests that darker, periphery-like vision increases the allure of the dining experience. The fireplace at home is rectangular and matte black with flames illuminated in a linear fashion, falling and rising with a remote control. The fireplace is set in stone – literally – surrounded by a floor-to-ceiling façade of blue-grey stone set in a Tetris-like fashion. I want to go back and edit the possessive pronoun for the fireplace I am laying next to. It is not mine. I did not purchase it. It was my parents’ hard-earned money that paid for the fireplace and this Long Island house that I have lived in since graduating with my masters’ degree. At 30-years-old and still recovering from anorexia after hitting a rock-bottom last year at 60 pounds, I have finally accepted that what is their own is my own and what is mine, is also theirs. We have a joint account on life.

Their last testament, the two people who I consider my mortal enemies, are also my Gods that I plea to, seek guidance and acknowledgement, blessings and sustenance from, have left everything to my brother and I. We both deny wanting anything. If one thing is for certain, it is that my brother and I do not want for money: We’re academics, or as my father says, book-sheltered. We have high IQs. We are not mainstream. We are paranoid, anal people hell-bent on contributing to the world and leaving some type of intellectual impact that does not get compensated for monetarily, and quite possibly, not even intellectually. The difference between my brother and I, aside for the fact that my mother has left all her semiprecious jewels to me, is that he is a full-fledged surgeon, and I am still not hired, striving for a staff writing position, or at the very least, penning stories for a myriad of publications who never respond to my pitches.

The difference is that I am the starving artist – quite literally – starved. It’s as if the energy within me becomes ignited and calories, a measurement of energy, weigh me down. The entire rationale is confounding because it is irrational and yet logically, caloric density creates weight. Perhaps I am thinking too hard about this. I seem to be proving my father correct. I’m stuck in my head, and that does not fare well in an unceasing world constantly in motion. The paradox is that physically remaining in motion does not bode well for making moves when in recovery from anorexia, and staying sedentary instead, in armchair pursuits like writing and researching, driving and communicating, are actually enabling me to make moves and move on.

Currently, my time is consumed by thoughts of food, meals, snacks, weight, exercising, and wanting, striving, and praying for a job – yes, for fiscal propriety, but also for self-fulfillment. I want to be able to appreciate coming back home after a day spent outside. I want my craft of writing to be read, for its content to be absorbed and documented. I want to be able to lounge and not prioritize panting, gasping for air, forcing myself to do a string of super-sets that include burpees, explosive knee drives, plank jacks, and squat jumps, in some attempt at proving my value and strength. My painfully cracked fingers grasp onto metallic oxidized free-weights as I grind my triceps. I tremble in anguish, sob, and convince myself to get through an hour in the basement where there is no insulation and to sweat takes effort. Imagine then, the magnitude of effort taken so that my flesh and bone outlines are imprinted onto the black exercise mats on the floor for a good hour after I had come upstairs, dripping.

You would think that me sprawled on my back in front of the fireplace would be a vote of success. The truth is, me sprawled out onto the rug in complete darkness, hoping that the idea of time passing by having made everything better, was naïve. I rested my aching, overly exercised body and sought refuge from expending more energy in arguments, but I was also fending off a mental hunger, again eating less than what I should be and too afraid to eat when not physically hungry because it would be at a time I deemed too close to when I would have my meal. I felt parched, my tongue too dry, making it impossible to swallow. My head was throbbing, and I was hoping the anxiety would finally cease once I had dinner and multiple fruits for snack.

I dropped off from writing this over ten days ago and I am picking up again. I have reclined in front of the fireplace numerous more times since then. Today, I find myself again in the position of conflict. My body feels icy, my disposition as well. I woke up to a full house- full of judgment and unsettled conflict. Everyone is working from home because of the snow. My brother was visiting home after a year, and as he planned in advance, was about to leave.

My father asserts that he will go into work regardless of the weather and so I am left to stay with my mother – the one who dabbles in dialogue and downward dogs that trigger the eating disorder exponentially. I find myself, today, as planned, venturing down into the basement, unfinished, with a television, stationary bike, treadmill, free weights, barbells, and household products like detergent and toilet paper. There are plastic containers filled with lives lived – certificates, school notes, yearbooks, board games, and photos.

I left off from writing this once more. So here is an update: My father ended up not going to work, instead, shoveling our property the entire day. My mother was visibly agitated, her frothy demeanor going flat the more the snow outside fell and the closer my brother was getting ready to leave, like the disappearing foam of nonfat milk from her Starbucks latte I used to swallow within minutes but that she sips on for hours.

I fried two eggs so that the whites were fully cooked and the yolks did not run, layered each one on toasted slices of bread that were dressed with American cheese. I pressed it down and dabbed at it with paper towel having used a tad too much oil. I sliced it in half, placed it on a new swath of paper towel set on top of aluminum foil, and then wrapped the sandwich entirely, swaddled like a newborn that I accept at never having the opportunity to carry myself. The sandwich was for my brother to take on the road.

After a lengthy hiatus from exercising in my basement, I had planned on venturing there again yesterday, prior to knowing that I would have company at home. I was on edge because I knew my mother would disapprove of me engaging in any type of exercise. Sure enough, as soon as I mentioned my plan to go downstairs but engaging in responsible movement, my mother said she would go on the treadmill. We were at it. She disapproved of my food choices and movement, and I was triggered by her watchful eye and desire to burn energy on the treadmill. My time would have been better spent not mulling over my mother’s judgment, the exercise routine I would engage in, and my plans to restrict food consumption later on.

I waver between spending time writing this or some other essay to post on my website, or typing another cover letter sent out on the web, falling through the silken strands or caught, consumed, and spit out. Should I spend my time reading fiction – a novel, or perhaps articles in my subscribed-to print magazines? That then begs the question of whether or not I should read the online-content from said publications? Should I make sure to remain in the know by spending time on social media?

Where my time is better spent, I am uncertain. I want to hold value - a narcissistic goal to some- insomuch as I want to contribute to others, to impact this world, to have the space I take up have value and not take away from others – an altruistic concept. Then again, value, a measure, exists solely by means of comparison. It is as if to argue that without dismal days, one could not be aware nor appreciative of those moments you would never want to end. It is like the crash and burn after Halloween – a one day celebration that is anticipated with Fall’s arrival.

I don’t like being sprawled out in front of the fireplace because what was once designated as a form of self-care, an acceptance of rest, a recovery milestone at being sedentary and imbibing company around the fireplace, and a central concept of the human basic, shelter, is now considered a warning flare. The last time I reclined, I was weak, frail, and dying. It was a fortnight before I entered the Emergency Room. Me laying horizontally in front of the fireplace conjures dreadful memories and suggests that my body is giving out once more.

So here I sit, typing this, because this is where my time should be spent as of now; preserving my body, spirit, and mind. My time is best spent repairing my health. My time is best spent disengaged from my kin who choose not to discuss and instead want time to pass, solidifying everyone’s conviction in their self, and in the process, unraveling anything tying us together, anything keeping us grounded, anything keeping ourselves from no longer being a tidy ball of yarn. I yearn to wrap the yarn fastidiously, but it is mistaken for me toying.