NYLA

The walls seem to close in around me, suffocating me with silent judgement as I shift back and forth under the security of my blanket. I’m lying in the darkness of my room, waiting for sleep to claim me. Another night where I am a hostage of my own restless mind. As has happened for the past few nights, it eludes me. I get up from the security of my bed and walk to my kitchen.

My eyes dart to the digital clock on my oven; the white numbers shine through the eerie darkness of the night. It reads two in the morning, a time of silence and solitude. Yet my mind is loud with rapid thoughts, pulling me further from the peace I desperately want to claim. I stand in my living room, quickly shuffling ideas on what I can do to set my mind at ease.

An unappeasable desire for distraction pulls me toward my bookshelf. Scanning my collection, my fingers run over spines of all shapes and colors. I pause when my gaze lands on my latest novel. Smoothly extracting the book from its place on the shelf, I carry it with me to the kitchen. Slowly opening the stained gray oak cabinet, I retrieve an unfinished bottle of red wine. After slipping a wine glass from the metallic rack, I shut the cabinet door and walk back to my bedroom. Once there, I carelessly toss the book onto the pillow and plop my exhausted body onto the bed.

In my haste, I grab the bottle and uncork it impatiently, ready to unwind and dive into its comforting depths. Filling the wine glass three-quarters of the way up, I set the bottle on my nightstand. Retrieving from the drawer a small reading light with a metallic clip on one end, I adjust the clip onto my book. I lean my back against the headboard, eyes alight with the expectation of escape. I delicately wrap my fingers around the cool stem of the wine glass. The aroma of rich, lush wine fills my nostrils as I gently bring the glass to my lips and let the velvety liquid caress my tongue.

Like every other night since I’ve started the book, I wait patiently for the red wine to weigh my body down. I get lost in the pages, oblivious to the passing time, until I am finally overtaken by darkness and a flickering candle’s gentle glow.

***

The alarm blares, jarring me awake. The numbers on the clock read six in the morning. I can’t believe it’s time to get up already. The book I read last night to distract my nomadic mind is lolled across my chest. With slothful movement, I close the book and place it beside me. I breathe in deeply and out tenderly to fuel my energy levels—or maybe to stop myself from screaming out loud because I’m still tired.

These sleepless nights have been killing me. Lately, I can’t seem to fall asleep at a decent time. When I finally do fall asleep, it’s around the cusp of four. Last week, the alarm on my phone was unsuccessful at waking me up in the morning. I overslept four times, causing me to be late for work, which is record-breaking because I never sleep past six, even on weekends, and I’m always on time. I purchased the alarm clock in hopes it would be much more successful than my phone.

It’s proven to be because I’m wide awake, and the alarm is still pounding against my head and eardrums. “I’m so tired,” I whimper. My eyes float to my book. I want to throw the thing at the ringing alarm clock and watch it fall theatrically from my nightstand. I decide against the theatrics, primarily because my favorite wine glass is sitting next to a lit candle placed inside an elegant three-wick holder with gold finishes.

The wax is melted entirely, and I’d rather not have a morning that involves me on my knees, scraping candle wax and shards of glass out of my rug. It’s dangerous, but a burning candle in the darkness of the night creates a certain ambiance in my bedroom I’m drawn to. There’s something I love about the smell of vanilla and patchouli when I’m winding down. Instead of plunging the book into the alarm clock, I sit up and reach to turn it off. I throw myself back onto my pillows and continue to lounge in bed.

I always wake up thirty minutes early to take a moment to myself before getting ready for work. I’m gently stretching my legs and back when my phone dings, indicating a text. I search my king-sized bed for my iPhone and can’t help noticing my crinkly white sheets need to be changed soon. There’s something about white sheets that calms me, makes me feel like I’m sleeping in a pool of fluffy marshmallows or bouncing around on clouds in the icy blue sky. My fingers brush the cool metal of my cell phone.

I retrieve it and bring the phone to my face. An all-too-familiar name is displayed across my screen.

Ryan. He’s texted:

Ryan: Call me when you wake.

He knows very well what time I get up in the morning. He spent countless nights here with me. He strategically wants to get my attention during a time he knows he can. I won’t give it to him. He has another thing coming. I’m not in the mood to hear anything he has to say. There are many things I despise, one of them being the audacity of a person. He has no right to disrupt my morning, not this early, and not after doing what he chose to do to me.

I sit up. My phone has six percent battery. Stepping out of my cozy bed, I plug my phone into the charger near the terrace. I stroll to my bathroom to rinse my mouth and splash water on my face, then make my way to the kitchen to quickly make a cinnamon-infused iced latte. Back in my bedroom, I open the light gray curtains covering my floor-to-ceiling windows and step out onto the balcony. Immediately, I raise my hand to shade my eyes. The sun is beaming bright and alarmingly hot against my face. I spend twenty minutes sitting outside indulging in one of my unhealthy habits: spending time on my phone before I start my day. Stretching my phone cord as far as it’ll go, I pull out one of the chairs on the patio, plop right down, and begin sipping my latte. It’s cool and refreshing—just what I need to combat this heat on my skin and the fatigue in my body.

I take in my surroundings. I love the view from my unit. The emerald-shaded trees swaying serenely with the wind and the bubbling water fountain in the communal area below, accompanied by the habitual quiet first thing in the morning, are peaceful and refreshing. As much as I love New York City, I also enjoy a reprieve from the fast-paced living I’ve been accustomed to, which centers my thoughts. I scroll through my emails and begin answering text messages. Ryan is the last person I message, and I keep it simple and short.

Me: Call you later.

I don’t plan on calling him at all. Sending this false text will keep him off my back for a few hours.

After a few minutes, I stand and head to the bathroom. I jump right into my full morning routine. Self-care is an important aspect of my life. As a child, I learned the steps I took to care for myself in the mornings had a profound influence on my attitude, which reflected on how I tackled my day. One day, I woke up and was responsible for my own well-being—that is, right after my mother left. I remember the day like it was yesterday. What I remember most is how I spent my days after she left us. I felt sad, gloomy, devoid of blissful emotions—a feeling I wasn’t frequently acquainted with. I went from having a full home to a broken one. I was young and confused. I spent days yearning to hear my mother’s heels clank against the hollow wooden floors of our house, or the sound of her keys clattering against one another as she placed them on the console table after coming in from work.

I was hopeless and wished my mother would somehow have a change of heart and come back home. She never did. One summer morning, my sister, Ryelyn, dragged me out of bed. She encouraged me to brush my teeth, wash my face, do my hair, and put on a pretty dress. She sat me down between her legs and styled my hair—something my mother used to do. When she finished, I stared into the mirror and smiled. It was the first genuine smile that surfaced on my face since my mother left.

At that moment, I felt my soul come back into my body again. I felt charged and a little less lifeless. That’s when I understood the significance of morning routines and how the steps I take in the morning can engender positive feelings and a better attitude than the one I’d been carrying. Everything changed after my mother left. That sudden demise initiated my mission to find a replacement for my misbelief about the world being perfect and harmless. I watched many movies as a child that permitted my emotions to cloud that misbelief.

How can anyone blame me? Cinderella ended up with her prince, and Tiana fell in love with Naveen. Me? Well, I fell in love with the rush and the high that came with fulfillment and happiness. Somehow, I missed the fact that Cinderella was abused by her stepmother and Tiana was poor and lost her father. What mattered most—what made little me happy—was that both princesses got the chance to wear beautiful dresses and they both kissed a prince.

When my mother left, her absence sent my father diving deep into work to avoid the hurt he was experiencing. He concealed his depression from us as much as he could until he dug himself deep into a hole that left him detached from the world, from us. I learned the hard way that the real world is coupled with pain and neglect.

I’ve attached and detached myself to many things growing up in hopes of finding that gratifying feeling again. I never found it in the ways one would consider healthy. I simply found it in ways I needed. I found it in control.

I unlace my satin pink baby doll nightgown and place it on the back of my door before crossing to the shower and turning on the hot water. I place a shower towel over my head and open the cabinet to grab my essentials. The shower feels divine this morning. It feels better than the thoughts I try to escape at night. The steam and hot water penetrate my skin, relieving my muscles and my mind—which runs relentlessly. I can’t get a grip on the pace it runs on either. Trying to catch up to my mind is like trying to grip the string of a balloon as it sails away into the sky—probable yet sometimes impossible.

I spend a few minutes letting the water run down my body. After handling my routine, I step out of the shower to begin my oral and skincare rituals. I stand in front of my mirror with my towel wrapped around my breast. Despite getting little to no sleep, the skin under my eyes is still tight.

Halfway prepared for my day, I stroll to my walk-in closet to choose an outfit. It’s usually organized by color, with a wall devoted to shelves of shoes. Only thirty percent of my shoes are scattered on the closet floor, and my clothes have accumulated into a pile on top of a creamy round ottoman in the center.

When I was a young girl living in Texas, I always dreamed of living in New York City. I visited the city once while on a school trip in high school. The tall buildings that stood before me were mind-blowing—intimidating yet dazzling. The glass windows aligned a multitude of stories high were fascinating to me. The fast-paced environment sent a thrill through me—a rush, an intense feeling I hadn’t felt since my misbelief about the world being faultless. A feeling I never thought I could get back until my feet hit the grounds of New York City.

At the time, I thought I’d fallen instantly in love with New York. I can now correlate those feelings with how I felt being there: capable, strong, daring, happy, and, most of all, free—free from the reality of the destruction of my family.

I want to wear something light, so I scan my options and settle on a ruffled dress. Plucking it from the closet, I lay it out across the bed before selecting an all-black lace set from my lingerie drawer.

I sit at my vanity to apply a light layer of makeup. Spring is thriving today, and I don’t plan on melting in the sun like an ice cream cone slowly tilting from heat exposure.

Loosening the top of my mascara, I raise the mini wand and begin to swipe several thick coats on my lashes until they are full. I unravel a claw clip from my hair and watch as my silky dark tresses fall to my shoulders. I’m a natural, but I take care of my hair enough to maintain its strength and length whenever I have it pressed at the salon. I part my hair in the middle and shape my face with a few curls.

Fifteen minutes before it’s time to leave for work, I study the shoe wall in my closet and choose a pair of nude heels that’ll go suitably with the shade of my dress, ecru.

I grab a clear bottle filled with orange-red liquid and spray my favorite perfume, with notes of Neroli and Grapefruit, on both sides of my neck and on my wrist. I unplug my cell phone from its charger, walk to my nightstand, and blow my candle out. I grab my purse and head toward the front door. Grabbing my keys from my console table with one hand, turning off the lights with the other, I close and lock my apartment door and head to the elevator. Pressing the down button, I enter when the doors slide open and descend four flights to the foyer of my twenty-four-story luxury apartment building.

It feels like a perfect morning. I take in a few breaths and revel in the fact I feel better than I did when I woke up.

The elevator doors slide open, and I greet the doorman with a bright smile. “Good morning.”

“Hello, Ms. Porter. How are you this morning?”

“I’m well. How’s your morning? Heavy traffic, per usual?”

“You know it!” he says as he opens the lobby door for me. “Your driver is waiting for you out front. Have a wonderful day.”

I throw a smile over my shoulder as I walk through the double doors. “Thank you!” When I’m outside, I check the license plate of the black Honda waiting for me before hopping in and greeting my usual driver. He smiles and nods his head. He never says much, and I like it this way. In the morning, I genuinely appreciate solitude. Because in these quiet moments of the morning, I’m free from the worries keeping me up at night.