By Stephanie Eisler Vance
Stephanie Eisler Vance is a writer, spoken word poet, educator, and mental health advocate based in Brooklyn, NY. In 2021, she founded The Make Yourself Collective (and MYC Kids,) which fosters creativity and artistic skill for all ages. In 2022, she published her debut poetry collection, MADE OF YOU, from Read or Green Books. She has performed her poetry on stages throughout New York City, including Housing Works Bookstore and the off-Broadway Triad Theater. Her prose has appeared in The New York Times and elsewhere. She has a degree in Cultural Anthropology from Duke University and just began a program in Expressive Arts Therapy. Her belief that art saves lives is literal. It has, in a very real sense, saved hers.
How It Started
By Stephanie Eisler Vance
It all started with a hand
A hand on my hand
thumb tucked underneath, stroking my palm
I was wasted
in that liminal space between sleep and awake
slumped over in the back of the cab
he was just taking me home
I knew him well
Skateboarder pal down the dormitory hall
already spoken for
but always kicked it just the two of us
off to the side at parties
When I woke up
all I could think of was his hand on my hand
only after that night did I know
that tenderness
was available to me
It started with too many lines of cocaine
sideways glances
giggles over nothing
with my newly single friend
a full year of my own personal will-they-won’t-they
my friends never told me to shut up
They should have
This cab ride at dawn was not tender
malfunctioning magnets
neither repelling nor attracting
We danced around each other instead
embarrassing
and more than a little exciting
I needed him to love me
He did
but he preferred that love
at a distance
as many had and many would after him
I have never understood this
am I prettier from a distance
the cracks not so visible?
The world more livable
when you love something
broken and beautiful from
way over there?
That is what we call a failure of imagination
mine can fill that distance
weave a road paved in golden wishes
impossible conversations and deep kisses
This distance may protect you
you may think it protects me
but the invisible labor in traversing it turns these
hands to ash
lips into vipers
cracks already there
groaning from the strain
This distance may protect you
It is destroying me
It all started with a full body shiver
my heart worn out from constant labor
a whole country away from what it needed
my brain commandeering the wheel
sometimes my mind has a mind of its own
And not just a road, it created a
u n i v e r s e
magic waiting in every corner of my world
an underdeveloped and overacted rom-com brought to life
it was all much too good to be true
but I had no reason to believe otherwise
I had no working definition for “manic delusion”
nor had I seen the new cracks
These new cracks didn't feel like cracks at all
they felt like healing
they felt like nothing could ever hurt me again
like distance, too, was a construct
and what is a construct in the face of limitless love?
I wanted to share what I had seen with everyone
most especially him
so I did
but he could not see it
why couldn’t he see it?
The cracks kept shifting, as cracks are wont to do
and just as suddenly as my world became brilliant
lighting changed
pain returned with double the force
distance spread like a weed
my brain whispering
what have I done?
It started with checking in to the psych ward
“fill out these forms”
as if I was capable of reading
“strip down so we can inspect you for bruises
self-inflicted or otherwise”
“have you taken any recreational drugs recently?”
“when was the last time you ate?”
“here's some orange juice”
It started with a diagnosis
Ten days of
pacing hallways
timid visitors
Ten days of
zombifying drugs
timed smoke breaks
Ten minutes of sunshine if we are lucky
I did not know what “psychotic break” meant
I just knew it scared me
Piteous looks, sideways glances no longer for me
but about me
“bipolar” is less scary than “schizophrenia,” right?
It started with a notebook
hospital-issue
making sense
not making any sense
cross-legged on the couch at the end of the hall
this pen my only reprieve from
the endless creep of each passing minute
Writing things the doctors didn’t want to hear
things I didn’t want to say
line by line excavating the cracks
the truth will set you free
literally
I hope
Something was churning
and then settling
and back again inside me
Is this what opening feels like
what healing feels like
what dying feels like
what moving forward feels like?
Is this something?
It started with my release
I described how I felt as
“twitchy” and “delicate”
when I could find words
but what I really meant was
my being is rearranging itself in real-time
and I have to stand watch so it doesn’t get all fucked up
This life I fell in love with revealed to be a mirage
the world as it looked, suddenly flat
I didn’t talk to him anymore
or rather
he didn’t talk to me
With my mind’s universe disintegrating
my heart’s road with it
all I had was distance
and a notebook
What was true then is true now
I’m not terribly good at distance, or
distance is not terribly good for me
its siren call takes me when I have no will at all
makeshift prison disguised as safe harbor
without will the way is away
But now, neurochemical jailbreak
I am back
I had gone away
but I am finally here
arrived
at the doorstep
of my shimmering fate
and I grab…
a handful of dead leaves
my fate has gone
leaving no footprints and taking no pictures
so I draw it from memory
which takes a long time
but it’s okay because I remember everything
I remember realizing I had bitten
my left ring fingernail to the nub
how uncomfortable my subconscious made me
I remember dancing around my bedroom
after our friendship ended
immediately ready for what I was sure would come next
I remember the last time he called me “homegirl”
I remember when he told me he loved me
then pretended he didn’t
I remember how many times I had to be told
“this is not about him”
before I would listen
how when I finally did
it didn’t change anything at all
If I keep starting the story
I never have to think about how it might end
one beginning bleeds into another
lessons learned, or not
cycles as comforting as they are vicious
I can continue to make the same mistakes
find myself in the same predicaments
the same hospitals
the same pain
I search before the beginning
I thought this mask would hold for far longer
I thought sadness was naivete
why didn’t I allow myself sadness?
I search anywhere but the end because
my psychiatrist says she doesn’t have a crystal ball
as if I was expecting her to
as if what I am now requires
the kind of foresight reserved for witches
If I keep starting the story
I do not have to move beyond it
beginnings do not require a crystal ball
“Write what you know,” they say
all I know is the beginning
I am only ever beginning
I keep going back to the beginning
and when I do
I am beginning
to move the starting line myself
a game of inches
I am beginning to make some sense
filling cracks with gold
or at least not ash
My definition of “self-care” goes beyond
face masks and bubble baths
because the strain is now the work itself
and beginning again
once a frustrating mess
is a blessing
The odds are not in my favor
Odds that would paralyze my mother
if she had the stomach to read them
but the odds
I think
reflect those who look at cracks
and see endings
a life or death Rorschach test
I cannot tell you I will always pass
For now, all I see are beginnings
I admit, it frustrates me sometimes
I do not have a crystal ball
But I do have this
pen and page and an urgent need to use them
isn’t that how all of this started?
