I stood on Jane Street at 11:30 pm on Sunday night and felt bereft. A sad affair since it was so unseasonably balmy. I love humidity. My Presto card was clenched in my hand and my faced was streaked with two hours of tears. Girlfriends had already embraced my tiny frame and said, ‘girl we love you.’ I still felt worthless and empty. A warm wind blew past my face. I love this weather. I’m so sad.
The fifty five bus approached. Oh good, I think, I won’t have to wait long. It blows right past me and then stops suddenly. I walk a bit to get to the entrance and step on. The bus is empty. I tap my card. It gets declined. The bus driver apologizes for missing me. I’m less than five feet two tall. ‘That’s okay,’ I say, ‘I’m small’. I start to cry. Not classy, Jane Austen type tears. I really cry. I stand there and say, ‘I’m having a really bad night. I’m successful on paper but can’t afford bus fare. Nobody loves me. I mean, it feels like I am really alone in the world and I’m so sad.’ I cry great big tears on the bus and the bus driver, a small man, who needs to keep his eye on the road says, ‘Aw, don’t worry. It feels hard now but things will look up soon. You’ll be fine. Trust me.’ I cry harder. I’m grateful that no one gets on the bus. Through my tears I say, ‘Thank you…but…I just don’t know….’ We get to Bloor Street. ‘Do you need a transfer?’ he asks. I say yes and thank him, shoulders bowed. He lets me off and I stand on the corner, in front of the medical buildings and cry a little more, clutching the transfer. I walk to Jane Station, get on the train and stare at nothing until Spadina Station.
Committing oneself to writing is hard and isolating. Trying to maintain contact with people when one spends all of their time alone making up stories out of thin air is exhausting. I’m not fighting a war or trying to get food for my family; I just want to be connected to other people and it’s starting to feel like an insurmountable wall. I don’t suffer from depression or anxiety, but I really don’t know how anyone lives in this world anymore with the division that is not the exception, it’s the rule.
The bus driver said, don’t worry, things will look up soon. I have to believe him.