The First Descent

As I told Leo, my ascension journey began the night I thought I was going to die.

I didn’t call it ascension at the time. In fact, I probably would have rolled my eyes at the word. The term came later, offered by an attorney who also read cards in his spare time. After watching a video that another reader had done for me, he looked at me and said, “It’s happening to you.”

“What’s happening?” I asked.

“Ascension.”

Whether he was right or not, what followed was the systematic dismantling of the life I thought I was supposed to live.

The night I thought I would die was followed by meeting Leo, and meeting Leo led directly into what many would call the Dark Night of the Soul.

The Dark Night began on what was supposed to be Leo’s third visit. He never came.

It was on his second visit that I ran late meeting my sister for lunch. Years later, when she came to pick me up from the hospital, she brought it up. She mentioned how I had said that if I had been selfish, I would have stayed with Leo. The comment hurt her.

I reminded her that I had made a choice that day. Not only had I met her, but I had also told her the truth about why I was late. Truth—something she still hasn’t quite mastered after all these years.

Only now do I partially regret my choice.

I am left to question if I invested my time in the wrong place. Still, had I chosen differently, I would not be who I am today. I would have surrendered a piece of my integrity.

It is in maintaining our integrity, and being humble enough to admit when we have fallen short, that we are able to stay connected to our inner selves. That we hold onto our soul and not give it away. When observing those around me, I am left to question if this is the spiritual war we find ourselves in. Demonic entities disguised as neighbors, lovers, and colleagues, placing us in situations in which we give up our integrity. Then, by refusing to acknowledge our errors and grow, we lose connection to soul. Separated, we become easy prey. Life continues to attack and we grow cold, bitter, and stuck within the Matrix.

When Leo did not show for our third meeting, I did the only thing I knew how. I went online to quickly find someone else to pour myself into. This new find lived not too far away. I showered, dressed, and rushed to numb a pain I couldn’t allow in. During our meeting, as breath, emotions, and sweat passed between the two, I couldn’t help but notice how different his body felt from Leo’s. I couldn’t shake the heartbreaking fact that he was not Leo. As my energy increased, a croak of pain that nearly passed through my lips was cut short as my fist hit the wall. “No,” I told myself. But as my energy climaxed, there was no hiding my sadness. Tears burst from my eyes and sobs rang from my throat as my body hovered above the stranger.

“I’m sorry,” I told him, wiping my wet face to see more clearly. “Has this ever happened before?”

“No,” he said, looking up at me with surprise.

“I should go.”

I quickly dressed and made my exit. Tears continued to stream down hot cheeks as I made my way through his building. Families and young couples witnessed my raw emotion. I had no shame. Only pain.

For a long time I have been under the belief that the level of grief caused  by Leo’s rejection had been a new experience. Only within the last year has my mind relaxed enough to recall one other. An attraction that was as immediate and strong as with Leo. The encounter occurred after I left my parents’ home and moved in with my aunt.

Once I had obtained my grandmother’s old truck, I had started to frequent a few bars and clubs in DC to be social. It took a lot of courage on my part, since I had never dated before. It also meant needing a fake ID. Sitting at home alone every night wasn’t why I allowed myself to be kicked out of the Jehovah’s Witnesses. I got kicked out so that I could have the freedom to find a partner of my choosing. I needed to be courageous enough to go out alone so that one day I wouldn’t have to.

So, on this particular night, I hopped into my old Chevy Blazer and made my way to Dupont Circle. Not much time passed before I met an older man. Something I was used to. Dark hair and horn-rimmed glasses. He had a Massachusetts accent, which I loved listening to. He looked bookish, established, and sexy. There was nothing not to like. So, you can imagine how excited I was when he asked if I wanted to go back to his home in Georgetown. At this point, I wasn’t used to hooking up. Not that I didn’t want to, I just rarely got the chance. And therefore, I didn’t know what to expect.

We took a short walk from Dupont to his apartment in Georgetown. It had a modern look and to no one’s surprise, walls lined with books. One of them I noticed right away, “Memoirs of a Geisha.” I had just started reading it myself. Wanting to sound bookish and if not currently established, well on my way, I started to share my thoughts on it. Geisha this and geisha that, I said in my most intellectual tone, pronouncing geisha incorrectly the entire time. The man never even bothered to correct me for I hadn’t been invited there for my mind. Now much older, I look back and know that I was just a thing to be used. Leo probably saw me in the same way.

A means to an end, but not the destination itself. How I have longed to be someone’s destination.

In the morning, naive and hung over with fantasies of my future life in Georgetown, the man kindly asked me to leave. No breakfast or coffee. No, let’s get to know each other. Just a polite goodbye. I was hooked!

The level of infatuation I felt then is both scary and embarrassing. My brain had been flooded with hormones that I had yet to learn about. My nervous system ringing from a deep knowing that should have been a large warning bell. “Freeze where you are!” I want to tell myself. “Slowly back away from Mr. Massachusetts.” All I wanted was to get to know this man and be his everything.

I was out of control and I didn’t know how to see it or defend myself against it. All I wanted was him. We had exchanged numbers, but he never responded to my voice messages. I would go out when I could afford in hopes of seeing him, but never did. Thankfully, I wasn’t so bad as to have gone back to his home uninvited, but it probably crossed my mind. All I knew was, I had met my person and now he had disappeared.

A few months had gone by when, challenging myself yet again, I hopped into my truck and headed into DC to hopefully meet someone new. I had stopped thinking about Mr. Massachusetts as my only possible person and was open to other options. I decided to go into JR’s, one of the more popular gay bars at the time. I flashed my fake ID and walked in. My eyes scanned the room and I honestly lost control of my body when I saw Mr. Massachusetts. I kid you not, my knees gave out on me.

SWV’s “It’s About Time” was the first record album, yes vinyl record, I owned as a kid. Bought for me by my aunt whom I would later move in with. Their song, “Weak,” had been a childhood favorite of mine, but I never knew it could actually happen. Now experiencing the sensation for the first time, my hands reached for the bar to stop my fall as my legs struggled to remember how to hold me up.

Looking at my possible person, my mind began to recall how none of my calls had been returned. Therefore, I decided to play it cool and not approach. I got a beer and tried to look like I was enjoying the atmosphere when Mr. Massachusetts finally turned and saw me. He smiled and approached. Always the honest one who “says too much,” according to my sister, I’m pretty sure I shared my feelings of confusion and even longing. The bar was loud and crowded and he could sense my sincerity, so he suggested we go somewhere else.

We walked down to a much quieter speakeasy where we found a plush chair for the two of us to sit in. Me sitting in his lap, my brown face tucked into his cream neck. This man was probably in his early 40s and I would have been 20. He thankfully knew to let me down gently.

As men walked past us, commenting on how cute we were together, my person was cautiously selecting words to explain why he couldn’t be my person. His main reason had nothing to do with age or race, but with the lack of access he had to his own emotions, to his inner self. He was very limited when it came to being able to express love and affection, and if he had been more skilled at it, he would have done so with a man who had been in his life for some time. Someone beautiful and stupid, but that he liked. “Just watching your eyes as you look out at the room, I know you are seeing things that I could never perceive.” He said softly in my ear as I pressed my head into his body. He wanted to make sure he would never be the cause of me losing such a gift. And he feared, he was certain, he would.

I accepted his explanation, but for some reason I couldn’t handle it. Once out of his orbit, I began to spiral out of control. At that age, I didn’t have the psychological tools or previous experiences to draw upon to stop my mind from starting a countdown to self-destruct. I needed to evacuate, but where could I run?

There was no Chicago Americorp program to run towards. Being summer, there were no classes or campus plays to throw myself in as a distraction. All I had was my job at the newspaper and I really didn’t want to show up for that. My mind no longer cared about the world around me. It was too focused on the emotions inside. A day or two after my experience at the bar, I approached my editor and calmly stated, “I need to take a week off.” I don’t believe it was a discussion per se, for I don’t remember if he ever gave a response. I just approached, blurted out my statement, and that was that. I took a week off.

With extremely limited funds and no passport, the only getaway I could think of was my ex’s home on Capitol Hill. Our relationship hadn’t lasted long. Maybe 3 months. That’s all I needed to see that one guy would never be enough for him. My presence didn’t even make him hesitate from drooling over or flirting with other men. The final straw had been the day I went to his house unannounced after a deflating day on campus, only to find a guy about my age there to supposedly watch a movie. When he opened his front door and told me about his guest, I expected to walk in and see a guy in his 30s sitting in his living room. Instead, I found a 19 year old sitting on his bed. I went silent. My eyes were the only part of me capable of communicating at that point, and they informed everyone that movie time was over and that this guest needed to leave. I then curled into a ball on his bed, fully clothed, back facing the room. In the morning, without speaking, I got up and left. This was the first time I had returned.

No longer with a roommate, my ex allowed me to stay in his back room. A room larger than his with its own bathroom. It had exposed brick walls and looked down on his garden and his neighbor’s carriage house. It was the perfect escape for someone who had romanticized the lives of writers like Alcott, Emerson, and Dickinson, all of whom lived in Massachusetts. My ex helped keep me fed and always had beer on hand. At night, a warm peach glow bounced off the red brick and out the window into the humid DC night air as Norah Jones’s first album soothed my bruised spirit. I cried a lot.

By the end of that week, we decided to venture out to Rehoboth Beach for the day. With our rental car all packed with food and drink, none of it paid for by me, we began to make our way out of DC towards the beach. It was then that I began to struggle to find the courage for one more small favor. The week had been so perfect. I didn’t want it to end. Although I could not really afford the lifestyle I had experienced for the week, I wanted to keep it. It made me feel like I was somebody. Maybe even somebody Mr. Massachusetts wouldn’t have rejected. “Is it possible for me to move in?” I asked.

“No.” One of the fastest denials I’ve ever received. Damn. I thought it best not to push the subject. I truly couldn’t afford to pay rent there or anywhere for that matter. But it didn’t hurt to ask, I figured. I told myself that it was best to just be grateful for the week and enjoy the day at the beach, which is what I did. On our way back home that evening is when my ex surprised me with his own question.

“When do you want to move in?”

And that’s how I ended up living on Capitol Hill for only $300 a month. It’s also how I was able to divert and erase from memory my first real emotional crisis. Depression would creep in later that year, but at a more manageable pace. With the guidance of professors who told me to visit the counseling center, a university that granted 12 free sessions of therapy to each student, and two consecutive therapists who took me on as their year long client for free. The next two years of living “independently” on Capitol Hill, exploring various storylines and characters in classes and on the stage, as well as sitting down weekly with a therapist, started my journey of confronting the various traumas of my life and deciphering how they had shaped me. I had no idea how fortunate I was then, but I am so grateful today. There is still much to process, but I would have been lost if it wasn’t for the guidance of those individuals as well as spirit.

I am also grateful to my editor, Uka, for not firing me when I returned to the paper after my mental health week. When walking back into the office, he immediately demanded an explanation.

“I told you I needed a week off,” I said, surprised by his anger. It is hard to fully describe my mental state before that week. But it was one that would have naturally assumed that simply stating my need for time away was sufficient for any boss to comply. Now that the week had ended, it occurred to me that perhaps that’s not always true. Knowing Uka’s temper, I thought it best to allow him to cool off before we continued any further. I turned and left. After exiting the office, I heard Uka scream after me and I ran. I realized the elevator was too slow for me not to get caught, so I went for the stairwell. I jumped down a few flights and hid. Uka came out searching for me but quickly gave up.

I returned the following day. “If I had found you yesterday, I would have fired you on the spot.” He said. I knew not to test. To just keep my head low and be quiet. I did my work and hoped for the best. He never brought it up again.