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Manic Museum

New city, new me

By Emily McCabePublished 3 years ago 6 min read
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The girl in front of me stares off into the distance. A sunhat rests lightly on her blonde hair. Her skin is shaded in pastels, fading down towards her pink nipples. I could recreate this, I think. I could be her.

But she’s only a painting. One of many in the MOMA that inspires me. This museum is the best part of my new city, I think. Although I’ve been saying that about everything new I experience in San Francisco.

As I pass by a collection of Keith Harring’s bubbly stick figures, I think to myself, I could paint these, but I’d use lighter colors instead. Each piece of art inspires me to create my own, though I’ve never painted or drawn with much effort before. After taking in a display of radically militant posters, my mind is racing. I could create real change, through art, I realize. Next is an immersive sound exhibit that ignites a string of ideas about artistic innovation with the senses. If high art can now be heard rather than seen, why can’t it also be touched? What if there were an exhibit dedicated to tactile experiences? What if paintings had smells? What if smells could be sent and received digitally, like photos? My mind is spinning in a thousand directions and I trust each one of them. I feel channels and possibilities ebbing.

I wander off in search of the cafe. Nothing and everything matters, I believe, now that I’m on my own. I could order whatever I want, with no one here to judge me - and I do, a slice of chocolate cake that my mom would definitely disapprove of.

The first bite is euphoric. This tastes like how I feel. Light yet bold, and entirely perfect. I’m sitting alone, in an empty sea of tables. Empty but for another loner, a man, sitting at a distance across from me. I only notice because he’s staring. Then laughing.

“Is that lunch?” he jokes; the crows feet around his eyes make his fading face handsome. “Can I join you?”

I nod yes; my mouth is still full. He’s much older than me, and both of us know it. This is exactly the kind of thing that would never happen to me in my small hometown.

His name is Stefan, I learn, and his life sounds romantic. Years spent studying abroad in Italy, then moving to San Francisco on a whim. As he recounts the years of his life, I am aware that the rest of mine is still ahead of me; I’m only 19, and he’s pushing 50. He asks about my family. I change the subject.

He works for Apple. “I can get you a friends and family discount if you give me your number.” Funny, I was just thinking of buying Airpods. Another sign from the universe; I’m meant to be here. The significant age gap doesn’t scare me; I’d been fantasizing about a sugar daddy fueling my recent shopping addiction, and here I was, rewarded with an opportunity out of the blue.

As he talks, I realize he’s a frequent visitor of this museum; he knows of the museum events happening in the near future. Immediately I’m dreaming of nights on city rooftops, mingling with socialites and artists. It’s all happening.

He wants to wait in line for another exhibit, but I’m too impatient to stand. I feel like I could sprint a marathon. This museum, this city, is too exciting to be waiting around for even a second. I ditch my new sugar daddy; I’m more attractive than him anyway, I tell myself.

I’ve spent hours in this museum already, but they passed by in a flash. Now I’m in the gift shop, reading the backs of each and every book so that I don’t miss out on anything. I learn about Frida Kahlo and her tragic accident, then the notorious San Francisco fog that locals apparently named Karl. As I make my way through the shop, the stack of books in my hands grows larger and larger; at checkout, my total is over three hundred dollars. Without hesitation, I buy them all. Other people waste time, I think. There are so many hours in the day that I could finish these all tonight, and even return them to get my money back.

Of course that isn’t true. Instead I leave the museum and spend the rest of the day touring the city, buying more and more - clothes, then plants, to decorate myself and my new apartment. I’ll sell these clothes back and won’t lose any money, I lie to myself. I’ve been down this road before; I should know better by now. But this feeling, this over-confident, top-of-the-world feeling, convinces me that I’m completely in control. And yet it’s only a matter of time before my mood ricochets the other way.

And just then my phone rings, threatening to burst my fantastical reality. It’s my mom - the last person I want to hear from. “So, how are you?” she begins. I tell her about my museum - not my crazy ideas, just the museum itself. “Well, at least you sound happy.”

Of course I’m happy, I’m away from you, I seethe internally. Irritation, another sign of an episode, courses through my body. “How are you, really?” she presses. A baby cries out faintly from the phone.

Stop bothering me! my mind screams. I know she’s asking whether I feel stable. I tell her that I do. Consistent happiness is stable, right?

As my mother talks, my mind races in another direction. I avoid the guilt of being dishonest about my mood by telling myself that I’ve made all the right choices. This was why I stopped taking the medication; I didn’t want to feel like a stagnant shell of myself. I wanted that feeling back, the feeling that I could be anyone, do anything, with no responsibility other than to chase whatever dream entered my consciousness.

“How are you doing with your new therapist? She specializes in your condition, I think she’ll be really good for you…” She doesn't, and can’t, know that I’ve skipped every session since our introduction. The therapist asked all the wrong questions. Each one, coincidentally, started with how are you: How are you feeling about things back at home? How are you handling the medication? How are you managing your life with the diagnosis of bipolar disorder? Neither of these women supported my ideas, my shopping sprees, my spontaneous adventures in the Bay Area.

The baby screams again. Shut the fuck up! I don’t want to think about this right now. My mom just keeps on talking, but I let my mind take me on a journey. I’m back to fantasizing about my new sugar daddy. With Stefan, I could spend money without dealing with the consequences. We could explore the city together. He could pay for painting classes, even vocal lessons, and I’d become a famous artist - a new vision for myself inspired by the MOMA.

“Shhh, honey, it’s okay…” Now she isn’t even talking to me. She calls me, interrupting my day, and of course she isn’t even interested in what I have to say. She just talks and talks about things that don’t matter. Typical.

“How are you okay with leaving her behind?” Here it is, the question she’s been wanting to ask me all along. I marvel that even this can’t dent my euphoric bubble. Annoyance is what I feel, not guilt.

“How are you listening to her cry, but not offering to comfort your daughter?” she says, as if I’m a flighty mom rather than a manic young mother.

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