Down the Drain

by Julia Fox

He gets lost in the pages of the books he reads, and it seems like he always has to be reading a few books at once. One isn’t enough to quiet the noise in his head.

Later that night, when we finally figure out how to connect to AOL, we create my very first email address. “Poshspice” is taken so I settle on “gingerkitty123.”

I’m nine years old and I’ve mentally and emotionally checked out from this family.

As she’s breathing through contractions, a nurse offers the option of an epidural. But before my mom can answer, my dad chimes in with his own opinion: “No, she wants to have a natural birth.” The nurse shoots a look of pure disdain in my dad’s direction. “I wasn’t asking you, sir. When you’re in labor, I’ll ask you.” Her telling him to politely fuck off is so gratifying. My mom tells him to shut the fuck up too.

In America, people go through relationships like toilet paper and childhood is prolonged well into our thirties.

Did I seriously just wait sixteen hours to get slapped in the face in front of the dead pope? I didn’t even get to have a moment with him!

Sober sex is a whole different beast. My endorphins can’t get enough of him.

“Being smart never got anybody anywhere,” I tell him bluntly, my words coated in cynicism. “Look at how happy stupid people are!”

“Eric, Eric, Eric. Everything is Eric!” Harmony complains. “You can hang out with us if you want,” I remind her. “You don’t have to stay in your room sniffing pills by yourself!” She rolls her eyes and continues microwaving her fish-flavored tofu sticks.

When I tell Josh I haven’t slept, he refers to it as “Method acting.” He always knows how to spin my antics into a productive contribution to the creative process. I love him for that.

Out of curiosity, I use an app on my phone to calculate the baby’s due date based on my last period. What happens next changes everything for me. The due date is February 6: Gianna’s birthday. It’s like a lightning bolt strikes through the screen.

I know this is more than a coincidence. It’s as if Gianna has come down from the heavens and put this baby inside me herself.

Aside from the doctors and nurses and Andrew, the only other people I see during these months are when I join the protests after the murder of George Floyd. As a white woman, I feel a sense of duty to join the fight and stand in solidarity with the protesters. I ride my bike up and down the city, warning the front lines of approaching police and hoping my unborn son in my belly can hear our chants against injustice.

As I enter my third trimester of pregnancy, we make the transition to a new apartment with high ceilings and an extra room for our son, Valentino.

Despite my love for Andrew, his tendency to rely on me for tasks he is unwilling to do and his general incompetence can be stressful and overwhelming.

Valentino has come a few weeks early, but he’s absolutely perfect.

He is never going to stop being abusive, and the worst part is he doesn’t even recognize his actions as abuse.

I glance over at my son. I refuse to let him see me like this. I wipe the tears off my face and pull myself together. I’m someone’s mother, and I’m a fucking star regardless of who the fuck I’m dating.

I decide that I’m going to do what the fuck I want. I’m tired of doing what I’m told.

“I can’t be friends with you if you don’t sign it,” he warns me. “I’ll live,” I text back.

I’m unlearning all the brainwashing and learning to love myself for more than just the way I look.

I don’t want men to like me anymore. I’m over it. I’m reclaiming my body and rejecting the notion that I exist only to be visually pleasing.

It’s okay to live with regret. It’s not okay to let it consume you.

The most profound beauty emerges from the ashes of destruction.

And by that, I mean that sometimes you have to burn your life to the ground in order to experience the life that is truly meant for you.

I was ridiculed for being different and for doing whatever I had to do to survive. But now everyone is wearing latex.