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It was a little easier when I was in college, less depressed, and more willing to fuck someone for a little weed. I was good at getting men to bend the rules for a taste of me. But this version of me that lives in sweatpants and hasn’t brushed her hair in God knows how long, is not attractive. She gets nothing.
Maybe that’s a good thing though.
“Gemma Antoinette DelGado.” My father shouts my name through the locked door. His accent is a hybrid of old Italian and North Providence. North Providence itself is a New York-ish accent. All the Italians on this side of Washington migrated from Sicily. They brought with them an old Italian dialect, passed down over a century and mixed it with some New York jargon. Now we have our own North Providence accent, which gets you called out if you leave the state.
I can’t tell him to leave me alone, because I’ve already done that too many times. I pull the covers off my body and drag my feet against the woven carpet to the door, unlocking it and meeting my father’s annoyed gaze.
“Are you going to stay in here all night?” Giuseppe means well. He’s a loving father, really. He just never taught us how to handle emotions. Ma was more of the touchy-feely one in the family. It’s not his fault. His father was taught to be a “strong man”—whatever the hell that is—and he taught him the same things. Sometimes parents pass their bullshit beliefs down to their children without fully understanding what they’re doing. It takes a lot to break the cycle.
“Yes, Papa.” I give him a weak smile. “I have a whole new season of ‘90 Day Fiancé’ to binge.”
He cringes. Another value passed down through the DelGado family is a strong work ethic. DelGados work hard and don’t play. We see self-care as laziness, and oh my Lord, does my father hate laziness.
He tries hard not to call the show trash, which it is, when he responds to me. “Gem, why don’t you go out into the actual world with real people? Maybe you’ll find your own fiancé.”
My laughter fills the room. “Sure, Papa. I’ll get right on that. Are we done here?”
I want to close the door and be done with this conversation. I want to curl back into my fleece blanket, cover my face, and cry again.
I want a lot of things.
I want my mother to not be dead.
Giuseppe scowls. “Either you leave the house and get some fresh air on your own, or I’ll call Gio to take you out.”
This is a genuine threat, I know from past experience. And Gio taking me out will just be him driving me to his own bar where I’ll sit by myself because God forbid anyone talks to his sister while he chases down other women.
It’s not a splendid time.
“Fine.” I glower. “You win.”
The mirror shows all my faults. The old version of me, the one that existed before grief took over settling itself deep inside my skin and bones, never looked like this.
She was a beauty. Posted on Instagram twice a day type of beauty. Showcased the latest trend and posed in front of brick walls and chic clubs kind of beauty. Perfect hair and a full face of makeup sort of beauty.
I made people jealous.
And now I can’t even get out of bed.
I’m an anomaly, I know.
I want to be happy, but I watch sad movies and cry underneath my blankets. I want to do things, important things, big things, but I never leave my room. I want to love myself, but I stand in front of this mirror day after day and remind myself of every flaw. I want to be loved, but I keep everyone at arm’s length. I’m not normal. I’m a conundrum, an enigma.
Life should be easier than this, I think.
I fix my self deemed flaws. My eyebrows have missed more than one appointment, so I fill them in with a brow pomade that makes me look like I naturally have dark, bold eyebrows. My under eyes are dark showing the world how often I cry, so I cover them with a green concealer and then go over that with a lighter flesh tone, effectively making myself look bright and awake. My cheeks are too chubby, so I carve them out with bronzer then highlight my cheekbones and suddenly I look sharper, more dignified. E
yes are dull so I line them with kohl and now they look deep and dramatic, they make me more interesting. When I’m done with this witchcraft, I’m transformed into a new person, one that doesn’t look like she’s spent the last six months hidden away from the world.
That’s the funny thing about depression, if you’re smart enough you can hide it well.
I cover mine with well placed makeup and cute clothing. Works every time.
I put on a black mini skirt paired with a matching long-sleeved top that dips low to reveal my cleavage. Then I slip my feet into a pair of black over the knee boots. The outfit is dark and ominous, but it will be seen as chic. I let my long raven hair hang in waves down my back.
Giuseppe hums in approval when I descend the staircase.
“You look beautiful, Gem.” He presses a chaste kiss to my forehead.
