I spent many a summer night in the basement of my neighbor and childhood friend, Molly. We'd pump our legs on her parent's old gym equipment, stored away along with '90s relics and successful Nickelodeon ads. Sky Dancers, Beanie Babies, and the coveted Barbie radio adorned the room as we hovered and played, stopping only for ice pops and Capri Suns. With its low ceiling and brick walls, this space was only one of many haunts we traipsed in chase of fun.
Our nights ended late — long past when street lamps would flicker to life (if we had any on our tucked-away street.) Eventually, we'd get the call to part, and I'd exit through the front screen door that moths clung to, the refrigerator humming and her dad watching a muted television in the living room.
On a necessary night walk recently, as we pivoted and toed our way across the beach through sand, shells, and many happy dogs, Helen and I talked about freedom. Or, maybe more accurately, the acute, wild abandon of youth.
There's this sensation of running as a kid that expresses the embodiment of that particular brand of freedom. Fearlessness in the face of falling. I thought of those nights at Molly's, of leaving and running full tilt down a paved slope, the thud, thud, thud of feet on concrete, the inertia of the downward tilt pulling you forward.
It's that feeling when your body loses control of your legs, and your arms pinwheel to regain control. Breathless, giddy, and young.
I guess this minor part of a longer, give-and-take and laugh conversation was about how we recapture that feeling. If we recapture it. But I struggled to think of many moments when I was so carefree. Perhaps that's why I needed the downward tilt and the slap of sneakers and sandals against tar to shock it into my system. Because I wasn't a fearless child by nature and adolescent nightmares evolved into adult trepidation.
This may come as something of a shock, but I deal with immense anxiety. I try to make it my thing. Like, if I'm open enough about the tumultuous summersaults my brain is assaulting me with, it might come across as "goofy" and "aloof" rather than debilitating. Rather than, "Should you be seeing someone for this?" or "You can't go through life this way" (this was said by a doctor in one of my first of many trips to the ER for anxiety-related issues. — i.e., panic attacks I thought were catastrophic heart attacks.)
To a degree, I've succeeded. My anxiety is a lovely finishing coat to my rickety construction — ground teeth, plucked eyelashes, stress hives, and all. It's not a problem, per se; it's "just Ally being Ally." And it is just me being me. But sometimes it's really, truly exhausting being me, and yes, cue the tiny violins, but how many times can someone check, recheck, take photos, and check again that the oven is off, the door is locked, the plastic is thrown away so that cats won't chew and choke on it, the toilet seat is down so the cats won't accidentally drown in it, and, for good measure, that the oven truly is really off. Also, never forget to unplug the coffee maker and the toaster, otherwise they might explode in the middle of the night.
Suddenly, the stress hives don't seem so severe. Essentially, this is all borne out of two recent things. One, the pesky health anxiety that rears its ugly head every six months or so to remind me that I live in a real, corporeal body, and that can be scary. Every pain, every sore muscle, every twitch under my eye is accounted for and filed under "how this thing relates to my imminent illness and/or likely death." Quinn's phone explodes with messages asking for assurance and reassurance that I'm okay.
"It's just anxiety." Well, is it just anxiety or is it just Ally, or do the two go hand in hand so swimmingly that, at this point, unraveling the two is impossible?
The second is something I pointed out on the way to a screening with Evan. I was explaining to him the virtues of having a car knife. Mainly, the idea that if you were to have one, it would help in the scenario of driving your car off a bridge. Then, I informed him to make sure, if that happens, to roll his window down mid-fall so that you can push it all the way down upon submergence to fight your way to break through the surface to freedom. In fairness, Evan's response was altogether considerate:
“Ally, are you okay?"
Hold for laughter.
But I am fine. Most importantly, I'm happy — I just always hope that, at some point, I'll grow out of this feeling. How many chances have I allowed myself to unclench? My parents often tell a story about how, after asking what 8-year-old-me was thinking, I replied, "School bus safety."
This is objectively hilarious. It's also telling.
But there were those warm summer nights, right, and the sprint between houses. There was the adrenaline high of kneeboarding when I was young and less concerned with injury. There was recreating that sprint in cross-country in high school while flying down grassy knolls with reckless abandon.
There's walking on the beach at dusk, the ocean kissing my ankles, and voicing these thoughts aloud to a cherished friend.
I find freedom, in a sense, when I write. My brain doesn't turn off, but the noise mutes. Putting words to a page is the hardest yet simplest thing I do.
Self-doubt evaporates because I genuinely, truly love this—this writing thing. And I'm thinking more about what kind of writing I want to do beyond film criticism. I'm drawn to these personal stories where I pick at my own scabs to maybe achieve a little laughter from others who "get it." I paint my pages with clown make-up and OCD armchair diagnosis because being this honest, this forthright, with my fears and demons and perpetual humiliations is the most I feel like myself.
I'm not sure there's a space for me in essayist storytelling, and I know I lack the prose of those I admire. But I think there's something to my stories, something to my honesty, that is liberating. I find freedom here.
I feel freedom and such heartwarming joy amidst robust and silly conversations alike with friends. D&D decompressions hold as much weight to me as trauma bonding and introspection.
I'm no longer fearless in the face of falling. I've never been carefree. But I'm hopeful and lighter when I'm surrounded by or immersed in what I love the most, and I'm aware enough to know and be grateful for it. I'm unsure what feeling I'm chasing or if it's even attainable when it was as fleeting as it was when it should've come most effortlessly. But I find these priceless pockets of time where I don't worry about the future and when fear and doubts and the stability of the front door or school bus safety do not consume me.
I simply am. I think it's that grace and earned peace that I seek—the solace of knowing that this moment, this unlabored breath, is more than enough.