The Twist

I’ve gone to the same laundromat for the past six months. I’m more than familiar with the floor plan, aware that if I’m not paying attention I can easily eat shit without ever entering the establishment. With the amount of times I’ve nearly tripped, it would be safe to assume I would take notes and be cautious.

But I never did. Instead I ate shit on the pavement.

My laundry basket full of clothes skidded across the ground, my tote bag of laundry soap and purse landed a few feet in front of me, I could see my Addidas fly right off my foot and spin multiple times in mid air like an Olympic gymnast. My phone fell out of my jacket pocket, skidding across the floor, sustaining little to no damage which is a mitzvah in itself. A wave of shock and panic hit my brain before I could feel the jolt of pain in my ankle. My first thought was I could not go to the hospital, especially during a pandemic. The mother and daughter who were packing the remaining baskets of their folded laundry into their SUV rushed to help me, unlike the weird-ass white people in the middle of the plaza area having a cook out, who took a quick look at my trip and fall moment, then reverted back to whatever conversation they had sans masks.

I resisted the help because half of my brain was plagued with “What do I do now?” and “This fucking hurts”. I thanked them for their assistance but that I would ultimately be okay and they could go on and resume the rest of their day. They asked if they could call anyone for me. The first and only thought I had was my dad, but I knew my step-mom was immunocompromised. Having him come out to help me was not an option. That’s it; there was no one else who I knew would rush to help me. I told them I had my phone and if I needed anything I would call someone. I thanked them again and as they drove off I sat in the middle of the parking lot, wondering if I could stand up.

Slowly I started to move my foot up and down. Despite being stiff and swollen, I realized my foot was still mobile. Once I confirmed it was not broken, just badly twisted, I calmed down. “You’re going to be okay, Heaven” was the phrase I kept repeating to myself since I had no one else rooting for me to literally stand on my own two feet. I put my shoe back on, and slowly stood up. Once I realized I at least had the capability to walk with a bad limp, I grabbed my things and headed into the laundromat.

Shock was still present as I was putting the detergent in the washer. My hands were shaky and I was dropping everything. I felt terrible since the laundry attendant just finished cleaning the washers and I managed to spill baking soda all over the lid of the washer. In between the wash and dry, I was able to sit on a bench and use the laundry cart to move around while taking pressure off my ankle. After completing my laundry, the next test would be if I could drive home with a fucked up ankle.

While slow getting in and out of the car, braking and backing out of the nearly empty parking lot, I managed to drive myself with as much ease as someone with a twisted ankle could. Now I had to bring the full basket of laundry back to my studio. I mouthed the words to the last song I heard in the car, Lana Del Rey’s “Freak” to help keep my mind off the throbbing pain in my ankle:

Baby if you wanna leave/Come to California/Be a freak like me, too/Screw your anonymity/Loving me is all you need to feel like I do…

As I found myself getting closer to my studio, I could feel the pain in my ankle intensify. It’s as if my body knew I was home and couldn’t hold out much longer on keeping composure. I felt like giving up but knew I could fully relax once I made it inside.

As soon as I entered my studio, I quickly shut the door behind me and started to cry. Part of it was pain, part of it was pride for handling my laundry from beginning to end while enduring the worst type of pain imaginable all on my own and part of it was the immense amount of loneliness I felt doing this without any help. I think I probably could have reached out to someone, but the pride I hold on with a death grip to ever let anyone see me in a fragile state prevents me from rarely asking for help. On the rare occasions I do ask for help, no one provides it, reinforcing the idea that it’s just me vs. the world so I might as well just do this all on my own. There is a certain freedom in this line of thinking, but it doesn’t make it any less lonely.

I spent five minutes having a full on break down before taking a breather and telling myself, “It’s going to be okay, Heaven”. I unpacked as much of my laundry as I could, washed my hands and headed to my bed. A studio that once felt like a sardine can all of sudden became a sprawled out hell. I have been using my work chair as a makeshift wheelchair, which has made getting around easier as long as I can control how much I roll.

The quiet in my studio feels more palpable tonight. I am blaring Shellac in my noise cancelling headphones, thinking it will provide a sense of comfort that there is another voice here even if I am propped up and snug in bed all by myself. Eventually I will have to go to sleep and the silence will become deafening again.