Stuck in an Alternate Universe
When I was kid, I often filled my time by visiting alternate universes to see what different versions of myself would look like. Sometimes, I’d pretend that I lived on a farm, and I didn’t own a washing machine; I would get all of the costumes that I had collected over the years and pretend to scrub them in a wash basin in order to get them clean; I’d line dry them by draping them across the rocking chair. Then I would go and swaddle my baby doll before going out to feed the goats.
Sometimes, I would pretend that I was in college and had a super hot college boyfriend. I would make myself some kid-friendly beverage and put food-coloring in it to make it look fun. I would sit at the kitchen table and pretend I was at the college-town cafe. I’d read books, do a crossword puzzle, and do what I thought college kids did: pass the time over coffee. I would engage in conversation with my imaginary friends talking about things that never actually seemed to be a topic of conversation when I turned 18.
Sometimes, I would pretend to teach a classroom of students. I would ask students to read aloud and award stickers for the ones that completed their homework. I would diagram sentences on the wipe-off board in my basement, explaining what adjectives were and naming some. Oh my silly, annoying, perfect, naive imagination.
Sometimes, I would pretend I was a pilot. I would pump my legs harder and harder on my blue swing and the higher I flew, the further away the world below me seemed to get. “Welcome to Southwest Airlines. This is your captain, Anneliese. Skies are clear, and it looks like it’s going to be a smooth flight. Just a few announcements as we get higher…”
Sometimes, I would ride my scooter around my cul-de-sac and look at all of my neighbors’ houses. “To your left, we have the Smith’s House. It dates back to 1645, and one of the queen’s servants lived here.” I would drive by slowly so my tour group could get pictures of the fairly recent housing structure.
Sometimes, I would pretend that I was living in London in a flat right in the heart of the city. I would walk around that same cul-de-sac picturing red double-decker buses passing me left and right. I’d pass by Big Ben, and I’d pass by flee markets. I’d see people with their dogs who only understood English accents, thinking that maybe I should get one of those: the accent—and maybe the dog, too. It would start to rain, and I would think to myself, “Well, it is London,” and I’d keep walking.
No matter what universe I entered and however long I stayed, I always got to come back home. I had this idea—maybe it was a tick—that if I did something when I entered that world, I would need to undo it in order to truly get back home to the version of myself that I actually was and probably to the most innocent and happy version of myself that I’ll ever be. So if I walked seven times around London going clockwise, in order to get back to my New England home, I would have to walk seven times around counter-clockwise. If I walked a certain pattern in my classroom, I would need to reverse the pattern to make the desks, the homework, and the responsibilities disappear. If I was giving a tour, and suddenly I just wanted to be home with my Mom, I would have to reverse that pattern to get rid of my homesickness. I did it superstitiously, but I always got home.
I say this because I was outside standing in the falling snow today, and I was feeling pain; my feelings were bruised. And these are the worst kinds of bruises and pains because one minute you’ll be listening to a song that will make you feel resilient—like you can get through it because you know how to; then the next minute you’re repeating the song over (because I tend to listen the same song 100 times in a row when I’m really in a bad spot) and your face starts scrunching up so you can stop yourself from crying in public because it hurts that much. It’s the pain from knowing you can’t change anything because that’s the universe you’re living in. It’s never your decision. It’s just one you deal with. Differently. Every time you think about it. Or every time the song repeats. Which is about every three minutes.
It feels like the longer I live through my 20s, I’m simply watching myself repeat every situation that upsets me, even if I said I wouldn’t. It’s like I’m stuck in this alternate universe, and I can’t find the way out. I keep doing the same things, and I found myself wondering if during one of these times when I had a child-like imagination, trying on this reality I’m currently in, if I forgot to go home. And now this version of me is the only one I have. The one where I just seem to be a placeholder in the lives of people. And I know at one point in my adolescence, I wanted people to use certain adjectives to describe me, but it’s become so trite because that’s all I’m ever told by the people that I desperately crave to see me as something else. There’s no substance to any of it. No one ever knows that I cry about it—more than I’d like to admit. Because it’s painful to experience. And it’s painful to realize where you stand with people. And it’s painful to be second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, nonexistent. It’s painful to be one thing when I have spent my whole life telling myself that I am and will be so many great things. And it’s painful to come to terms with having forgotten how to go home, how to go back to possessing that child-like wonder where love, hope, and innocence lives—where I can create versions of myself so effortlessly just because that’s what I felt like being that day, and where no one is disappointed because people are okay and happy with versatility in a woman. Every day I strive to be more than that one adjective, but every day I repeat the patterns to make sure I still could be that one adjective. But if you were to get to know me and ask what I wanted, that “quality” would never cross my mind. I want something else.
Youth taught me that I could undo versions of myself if I simply just went back the way I came and undid the patterns of how I got there. I always thought it was so naive, but looking at this sentence, it resonates with me.
I have gravitated towards patterns my whole life, and sometimes I get stuck in the unhealthy ones. It feels like I’m stuck there quite often, and I get sad and introspective more often than not because every day that goes by, it feels like I’m getting a little further away from myself—my true self. And I forget. I always forget to retrace my steps. So, just for today, I decided to do something stupid—I decided to reverse my pattern in the snow. I didn’t want to create fresh tracks and see where it took me. I didn’t want to try on a different version of myself. I just wanted to go home, and I wanted to undo what I’ve done to myself.