The fear of being alone can consume you until you actually experience being alone and realize it isn’t so bad. It’s like wanting to dip your feet in water for the first time but you’re worried that it might be too cold. But you dip your feet in and somehow the water is cold, but the cold grows on you and all you ever want to do anymore is just stand there in the growing warmth of the once cold water with your feet touching the ocean floor. The sad songs play through your headphones on a loop while you lay in bed with your eyes glued to the ceiling wanting to know when you’ll start feeling less alone. Then you realize to overcome things you have to claim them on your own. What I mean by this is that you must own those feelings and make them your own. That’s what I did two February ago. Scrolling In bed on the laptop I am currently typing on now with the same two fingers as before because I haven’t managed to type with all ten fingers yet. I know, quite sad. That’s beside the point. The thought had entered my brain that I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself because pity doesn’t buy you much regarding self-worth. So, my hand dug around my purse and grabbed my wallet to then grab the card that has accepted me so much happiness. I clicked away to buy myself a gym membership. Now was the hard part, I put on my leggings after fighting and tugging to get them on. Packed my bags with the same lock I’ve had since middle school, put on my running shoes, and took a deep breath preparing myself for the challenge of being alone. I walked on what was a warm day and the sun was beaming, and the snow on the street was finally melting. When I reached the doors of the gym, I knew there wasn’t any turning back. I walked in and the smell of sweat hit my nose as it defrosted from the cold. That was the first and last time I was afraid of being alone. Putting myself in a place where I knew I had so much to be judged for allowing me to realize nobody cares as much as I thought they did.

The horizon was dark and stormy as we drove over a highway. I remember my eyes rolling with fatigue and fighting to stay awake, while my mother and father chatted away at the front of the car, talking about whatever it was they managed to find simultaneous interest in. Angel, my older but drastically younger brother, was fiddling with his Nintendo beside me. The air conditioning was crisp and audible, cooling the faint twinge of pink on my cheeks from having spent time playing outside in the warm spring air, before my mom, unbeknownst to me, dragged me along on what would be the only family trip I’ve ever known.

We didn’t often go out because my parents worked often, so when my father pointed out my mother’s side of the window and urged me to take a look, I couldn’t even describe the feeling that went through me. There, in the distance, read two words with enough power, any exhausted child would rise from their seat screaming with anticipation and joy, and it said, “FERRIS WHEEL.”

Many know it by Luna Park, or Coney Island. The same one with that broken ass roller coaster, always two rides away from getting that damn park a lawsuit. The Cyclone, they call it, but death trap is more fitting. There was also the iconic Spook-O-Rama, or however you spelled it. Either way, (and less importantly for the wholesome-ness of the story, my father forced me to take a picture with that creepy ass reaper statue).

Anyway, from that point on, both Angel and I rousted in our seats, kicking our legs, and talking about hopping on our favorite ride the Thunderbolt. It is the most vivid memory I have where we were laughing uncontrollably, and not solely because laughter was easier to do than cry. When we got close enough to the park, the first thing that hit my ears (besides all the other kids screaming and laughing and running around without a bone to detect danger in their bodies), was “Numb” by Lincoln Park. Ironically, my brother and I loved the band, so despite its dark lyrical messages, I actually found, and still find, the song to be one reminiscent of happiness. After jumping out of the car, my mom grabbed Angel’s hand, and dad grabbed mine. They led us down a block-wide strip of mini-games, blinking lights, pinging sounds, until finally, the gloriously sweet scent of funnel cake invaded our nostrils. Thus, we convinced our parents to let us invade their wallets.

Unfortunately, I cannot remember anything from then on, but maybe it’s better that way. God knew I could sit for hours imagining the rest.

I remember the first time I went in an airplane. It’s one of those experiences where people explain how it felt but you still don’t get a firm grasp on it. My first time was when I was around 17 and I wanted to visit my childhood friend in the west. The minute I realized I would have to fly I did get quite nervous but honestly, the feeling didn’t last. It was a little after noon and the sun started to sink under the clouds. I waited in a long line anxiously waiting for this new experience. I doubt anyone was as happy as I was awaiting this moment. From the outside the plane does look big but as soon as you see the inside your brain loses all reasoning and you are just so confused for a second. I could hear the electricity and engines vibrating against the floors and walls of the plane. It was cold, almost like a walk-in freezer that they use in most restaurants. The space was narrow and it was hard to move, it felt as if I was being packed into a can of sardines at this point. In my head, I wanted all of this to be over, even though I had just found my seat. 

Most would close their eyes when they’re scared of a fiery metal death, however, I chose to keep them wide open. I feared the million little things that could go wrong as we started to move down the runway. But I also feared the million little things I would miss if I blinked. The speed of the accelerating bullet train with metallic wings pushed me far back in my seat. The ground had gone from solid colors to a flashing blur, the lights spun around my window as the plane had left the surface. Then it happened, my view had been expanded, to put it into simple terms, it felt like I was Google Maps. The world had become so smaller, yet I still felt like an ant all the way in these clouds. At this point, I couldn’t stop myself from grinning from cheek to cheek. Yeah, my heart was pumping and I couldn’t believe physics would allow this, but this moment became forever engraved in my childhood.

The city was always my biggest enemy as a child.  Noises that would shatter my skull and a million vibrations that would alter the beat of my heart.  It made me wanna scream, pull my hair out, throw a fit.  This deep uncomfortable feeling I experienced in the city is what made going up state to visit my abuelita all the more special.  It was quiet and lacked the vibrant lights that burrowed into my eyes and blinded me.  That perfect getaway for this undiagnosed ND child became a place of many great memories, but there is one that I recall often when I feel overstimulated. 

My dad used to take my sister and I to this trail somewhere up there, and we would ride our bikes until we started getting close to town, at which point we would turn around and head back.  There was no greater feeling to 8 year old Samantha than riding my little white and purple bike through that path on an early/mid autumn day.  I would pedal leisurely, enveloped by a canopy of green, yellow and red-ish leaves.  Sun breaking through the cracks like the light breaking through the surface of the ocean waves; so serene and so gentle.  The wind would cool our bodies, clad in shorts, T-shirt’s and a thin zip-up hoodie from Old Navy.  It would help us keep going down the trail that never seemed to reach an end, of course until it did, but the ride was so smooth.  None of the cracks and unevenly raised ground like the sidewalk, instead it was like I would glide, none of the vibration. And, if I closed my eyes, it was like the sounds of nature, the rustling of the leaves and the calls of the woodland creatures, would become a heartbeat itself.  I can’t even begin to explain the scent of crisp air. It smells cold, like what I think sky blue would smell like.  I wish I could go back, but I can’t see myself ever learning to drive. 

As I sat on a bench in a park a little ways away from my home, I noticed the branches of a grayish brown barren tree. They pointed in countless directions and got increasingly thin as they reached out. A shredded black plastic bag is wrapped around one branch, swaying during the few times that the wind started to pick up. I watched as groups of people passed, their shadows blending and parting on the sidewalk behind them. The ground is covered in black specks, colored only by a splash of red paint that had dried. Vehicles hummed, waiting for the stop light to turn green. The second it did they were off with buses creaking, ladders rattling atop a van and motorcycles revving to life. The motorcycle engines were especially loud. The smell of gas was faint, fortunately, but accompanied by the even vaguer smell of Caribbean food from a restaurant across the street. Besides the restaurant there was a vendor selling flowers. Roses of various shades of red and pink compose bouquets awaiting customers to indulge in their beauty. My attention was drawn away by the laughter of a woman waving off a friend as she crossed the street, a wide smile was on her face as she turned away from them. The white lines of the crosswalk were beginning to crack and fade. It was a bit warm even as the sun was starting to set and the shade grew. My eyes returned to the greenery before me. Tiny blades of grass move slightly, revealing two birds flitting about. This would go on for a few moments, but one would eventually fly away with something orange in its beak with the other following unyieldingly.

The hill coming up seemed like an endless road. Gum-spotted concrete rose up like a stairway to familiarity – the discomfortable comfort in poverty. The sun was too warm for the jumper against my bare legs, the polyester along my collarbone. My mother called me a tropical baby, born with an overheated body meant for hot weather – but I disagreed. My sister grabbed my hand with a parental-like grip as the shops blurred together, the bell of the icee lady ringing in my ears as she towed her cart around the streets. 

“One dollar, one dollar! Coco, cherry, mango!” 

She guided me towards the woman, reaching for her wallet to pull out two bills. Handing me the “rainbow” colored treat, I licked and licked, desperate for relief from the approaching summer. My sister’s tongue was red with her own. 

“Can we go to the store?” I asked. 

“For what?” She gazed down at me. I knew she felt the same, but she wouldn’t admit to being hungry like a kid would. 

“A snack.” 

She gave me a look. No. I knew. It was okay. I had something already, right?

Marching my mary janes past the bakery, my favorite smell wafted through the air, sweet and cozy. I longed to eat just one piece of bread – but it was out of reach, out of budget. General Tso’s chicken and slices of pepperoni and cheese mingled with the scent, becoming a food symphony that taunted my nostrils. Melancholy, I slurped up the remaining sugar water from my cup as she tugged my arm up the hill, home to an empty fridge, faucet dripping into my glass as I awaited dinner.

It’s not as if I’ve never been to a Shake Shack restaurant. I’ve even been to this one many times before. However, I think this particular lunch is as if I’ve never been to any Shake Shack before, not just this location. The reason for this is because two weeks ago I was diagnosed with Celiac Disease.

Celiac disease is an immune reaction one’s body has to eating gluten. When someone with the disease eats gluten, their small intestine is destroyed and over time becomes unable to absorb the necessary nutrients for, frankly, survival. For those of you unfamiliar with gluten, it appears in many of the world’s greatest foods therein causing those with Celiac disease to go mentally insane. 

Since receiving my diagnosis, I haven’t been going to my regular food spots because, more often than not, they serve food laced with the harmful gluten chemical. But, after two weeks without a burger, I decided it was time to take the leap of faith. See what gluten-free bread was all about. 

It cost me an extra dollar to order my burger with the gluten-free bun as if I weren’t in enough despair. Frankly, though, I was without choice and ate the extra expense. Then it came time for me to actually try the stuff. Now, no one usually gets excited over the bun when anticipating a burger, but when you find yourself having to eat without it, or with some faux-bread substitute, you find yourself longing for that soft, velvety loaf. 

To add to the strangeness and tension, my burger came encased in a new box, new branding that made my meal feel that little bit more foreign, and due to my unfamiliarity, takes a few extra moments for me to get into it. 

Unwrapped and sitting in front of me, I look at my burger. It is dark and glossy. I poke and prod it a few times. It is hard. I tweeze it with fingers from both hands and pull the top bun ever so slightly apart. It is filled with gaps of air. I can imagine it attached to the back of a scuba diver swimming through a coral reef. 

I open my mouth and raise the burger to my lips. I chomp down and think hard during my first couple of sturdy chews. It’s dry. Is that bitter? Is that sour? It’s dissolving with just the application of my spit. After the next few bites, I sit in mental solitude as I resign myself to a life devoid of real bread. 

In conclusion: Ugh. 

Those nice warm breezes that cool me off from all the sweat that had accumulated on my forehead, giving my body relief from all the heat it’s been feeling. I take a deep breath in, feeling new again, refreshed. Not that I mind, I enjoy being under the sun. I get enough wind every time I run, feeling my feet pound on the ground, my hair rising up and exposing my neck. Running feels like flying, after a while where I don’t even feel my feet anymore, like my legs are no longer a part of my body, it’s as if I am floating. My chest begins to feel tight, the air has been removed from my lungs and suddenly I feel my legs as my own again, aching a bit. My body has demanded a break. Water from the public fountain tastes like the best thing on Earth, so fresh, clean, and pure. Not being able to get enough of it. I take a seat and hyperventilate until my lungs inflate again with air. Time is up though, as one of my friends is approaching quickly but not fast enough as I dash away as far as I can. My feet are taking flight again but this time they become entangled and my knees and palms take the brunt of the fall. I skid across the cement. Without another thought I jump up from the ground and swerve around the corner. After a few more minutes of my other friends getting caught, everyone is breathing heavily, gasping for air, and rushing each other at the fountain. I approach victorious when suddenly there is a sizzling sensation in my hands. Bright red scratches on my palms, shreds of skin coming out, dirt surrounding it. Both of my knees looking identical. The once relaxing and rejuvenating wind had become a warning for upcoming pain. My hands close up, my knees pull inward but my head faces the clouds. Feels very bittersweet to feel such pain and pleasure simultaneously. My friends ask me if I’m ready to play again, I smile.

The cold breeze blew through my hair. The sun shined on the soft waves, making the water sparkle like diamonds. The gentle rocking of the ferry created a calm and serene moment, while my two friends and I enjoyed the scenery. We approached the Island slowly, and the big white letters reading “Governers Island” got closer and closer. The ferry came to a stop and we walked out. We walked side by side, making small chatter with each other. The path was filled with cracked cement, making the path uneven under our feet. We walked through the grass and dried leaves crunching under our feet. 

We each picked up our skates, and the heavy shoes weighed down my arms. Putting on the shoes, I wobbled onto the rink. The ice made me lose my balance with every step. I held on to the wall and took small and slow steps. The ice gleamed under the sun. My thighs burned from the effort of skating and we finally walked out of the rink. My legs feel a sense of relief after sitting down and taking off the heavy skates. We continued walking throughout the location. The smell of smoke and charcoal filled my nose. Families were sitting around grills, as dark smoke rose from them. 

The sound of children running and laughing died down as we walked under this old red-bricked building. We reached these bright red hammocks and we each laid down on one. The only thing that could be heard was the wind blowing through the naked trees. The sun shined down, but not excruciating blinding. The sky was a bright blue and only a few thin white clouds covered the sky. Time seemed to stop, as I softly swayed on the hammock staring at the sky. The world went quiet and a sense of calm washed through my body.

I awoke from the top bunk. Always the first of many, as if my body were hardwired to function at 6 am, eternally. Both a burden and a blessing, I always awoke to a dimly lit world. A world that, if only for a moment, belonged to me. 

The cold metal ladder awaits my descent, only after removing the plush blue blanket from my then small frame. Motioning carefully and quietly, so as not to wake my older brother sleeping beneath me, I propel downward (real spy-like) onto the beige carpeted floor of our tiny, hardly one bedroom, bedroom. Now, what compels a 7-year old cauliflower-looking rascal to wake up at 6am? Well, Popeye the Sailor Man, of course.

Exiting the bedroom I step onto the square shaped kitchen tiles, wearing my white, soon to be dirty, socks. What lies before me is a tiny beige hallway leading up to a wide kitchen that connects to the living room further back. As previously mentioned, the world is dark and quiet, but I could navigate my home without a light source. To anyone else this would be the stuff of nightmares, seeing a little boy with moppish curly hair cruising about in the dark like it’s no one’s business. Luckily, I hardly made any noise. 

With the strength of Hercules, I grab myself a heavy wooden chair to reach the red box of Froot Loops from atop the fridge. The bag inside crinkled and crackled as I tilted it. Falling rainbow rings clattered about and dispersed into an orange bowl, forming a mighty hill of sugar. Now opening the fridge door with a light tug, I reach for the gallon of milk with the blue cow on it to pour into my bowl. Alas, they’ve submerged, I tapped around on the cereal with my silver spoon to ensure each ring was covered. Now that my breakfast of champions was complete it was time for the entertainment.

A digital ‘6:04 am’ is highlighted on the cable box in lime green. I grab the plastic silver optimum remote from the brown leather couch in the living room, turning the TV on and lowering the volume completely to keep up with the ninja act. Now, the cable box is turned on with a little white light. I sit criss-cross (applesauce) onto the large brown patterned rug below me.

The Boomerang channel, that was my destination. There I can watch Popeye on 1-2 bars of volume in the relatively silent bliss of morning. Raising the silver spoon from my pool of sugar, I take my first bite of cereal and crunch on artificially flavored goodness. Ever since then, I’ve been waking up early naturally, but it’s funny to think it began as a result of cartoon airtimes.