Why Is There a Line to the Airport Bathroom?!
5 MINUTE READ
Don’t they know that I need to cry? Don’t they know that the tears are pouring and I can’t breathe and I didn’t plan on feeling like this today? Don’t they know that my mask isn’t hiding enough of what needs to happen in the marginal comfort of a busy airport bathroom stall?
There was a bag of things from my ex’s house. My mom picked it up for me when everything fell apart and I was grieving. It’s been a year, almost to the day, I think. I don’t know for sure. Not the anniversary I thought I’d be celebrating, and I’m not looking to start.
I visited my family in Chicago this week, coming off my first show in New York City. I pondered what I’d do with the contents of the bag. Maybe I’d sort through it alone, and slowly. Inhaling incense and fighting back tears. Maybe I’d invite some friends over and we’d rummage through together, consoling my bruised heart with the salve of encouraging laughter only girlfriends can provide. Maybe I’d get up the nerve to just toss it, and to feel very big and triumphant. The horns would play off stage as I bowed to thunderous applause. My stomach would churn and tremble with loss, the curtains drawn just before my adoring audience adored too closely.
Every iteration was but a painful daydream. I had no intention of bringing any of that nonsense to life any time soon.
I did want to know where the bag was, though. My family is juggling several little heartbreaks right now—my latent one the least of their worries—and my mother has a propensity for throwing things out when she’s stressed. Becoming aware of the bag’s location feels like a safe first step. Mom says she might have stuffed it in her closet, assuring me that she’d happily ship what I needed back to me in the city. I had a moment of impatience, as though my belongings were perpetually rotting like month-old apples. I should save them, lest they corrode everything in their vicinity.
I quieted my adrenaline with a deep breath, telling mom “no.” I board my returning flight today, and there are personal items. Fine excuses and graceful backpedaling. I’m not ready.
I’m packing and there’s a knock on the door. The trash bag of things my mom somehow found. I’d forgotten how much I can count on my mother’s tenacity under pressure. The trigger is pulled, and I’m seething.
I told her I never asked her to actually give it to me, though I internally recognize that semantic hiding place. Mom neglected to read between the imperceptibly thin lines, and now I’m confronted with something I feel obligated to deal with. I push the door closed and sigh pointedly. The bag and I engage in a stare-off, my belongings shrouded in brambles.
It’s winning.
I tear it open. Soap, two pairs of boots I wanted back, and a brown box I couldn’t bring myself to touch. The rest of it could have been tossed. The point is that it’s scattered all over the fucking floor and I have to leave in 10 minutes. The best I can manage is grabbing a pair of boots I still wanted, stuffing them in my suitcase, and pulling the door closed behind me. My hands are bleeding, and I’ve had enough.
Dad drives me to the airport, as dads do. The car ride went as well as it could have. It’s not Mom’s fault, which I know. She was just trying to help, which I always know. My father’s manner of balancing emotional validation on either side of a dispute never ceases to amaze and comfort me. The clouds even clear in my head for a minute. The way they would if a tornado knew it had you right where it wanted you.
Before I know it, the knot in my throat is pulled taut. I am no longer able to sort through my feelings, save choking and sputtering. My eyes well with memories of my belongs in her home again. In love again. My suitcase is retrieved from the trunk and I fall into my father’s arms.
“I just wasn- I couldn’t finish it, it’s a mess. It’s jus- a lot, too much. I couldn-…”
He squeezes me.
Off I went to check my bags, but I’ve already been swallowed whole. My heart pounds in my ears. My vision blurs. My head is spinning. In an effort to catch myself before complete emotional collapse, I begin to frantically search for a place to shatter in peace. Airport chapel? Yoga room? I’m hungry. I don’t want to forget to eat. I forget to eat when I’m triggered. Chapel again? Where is the nearest bathroom?
I just walked. I walked in a straight line until I could find one. Two moving walkways, screeching children, and finally.
Except for the fact that there is a fucking line.
Of course there is, why wouldn’t there be? I guess this is fine, but where is the bathroom for small, crying people? I’m only about a half-inch tall right now and am drowning in my tears, so if they could just build one really quick that would be great. My mask is stuck to my face. The stall doors are low, thank goodness they won’t know I’m just standing. It’s my turn now.
I brace myself against the side wall and heave, trying desperately to time my noise with the flushing and hand washing noises to maintain, what? An ounce of dignity? Refraining from sinking to my knees saves a piece of me too, I suppose. This grief feels like blades in my throat, like someone squeezing my chest with vengeful, spiteful fists. At the same time, I am drained and lightheaded, like my dangling body has finally been snipped from the edge of a cliff. I am falling.
A year. Has it been? I guess I’d been counting too, a finish line of sorts. My trigger says I was only broken up with 15 minutes ago though. And with the stall’s wildly inconvenient lack of pillows, candles, and soft, weighted blankets to convince me otherwise, I have to say she makes a compelling argument. My tote bag must be 200 pounds, just like my shoulders and my head in my tear-soaked palms a moment ago. I pick them all up, unlock the stall, and wash my hands. The little paper towel from the machine is already disintegrating.
I don’t hate my mom. She’s an angel. Like, a real one. With wings and the most deserved, sparkling halo and a sing-song voice. I don’t hate my dad for validating a possible miscommunication.
I hate her.
I hate you for being emotionally unavailable, I hate you for being conflict avoidant, I hate you for gaslighting me, I hate you for making me try harder, I hate you for making me feel guilty for basic decency, I hate you for breaking up with me, I hate you for having my things back, I hate you for making me snap at my mom, and I hate you for making me dry heave in an airport stall a year later.
Fuck you.
Fuck you again.
Lift off was turbulent. How did I get on the plane? Where was my boarding pass? No memories, just swaths of blurred color in the airport. An angry, tearful Degas.
There was a sign that stuck out though.
“You win the endurance test. You’re almost there. You got this!”
Any other day, Southwest, you might’ve been right.
Just not today. Today, I’m not so sure…
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