A Practical Guide to Containing Your Multitudes
J.E. Bartel
Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)
— Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)
— Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"
I find the old me in all the likely places.
First there’s the me strolling down St George Street, yellow backpack on one arm. She is going through a lipstick phase and wears a bright purple shade outside her lip lines. God, my bangs look so greasy. Even though she hasn’t been through anything hard yet, she is empathetic: an easy recruit.
Next is the me at her first corporate job. Seeing us file in between the desks, her eyes go wide; she comes with us less out of a desire to help and more out of fear that her boss will notice several unannounced guests crowding her desk. “I’m on lunch early,” she tells her desk mate, and slings an expensive-looking blue handbag over her shoulder.
Next, we knock on a front door at the top of a steep driveway; inside, a shrill barking resounds. The girl who answers the door is small and plain, with freckles across her nose.
“You busy?” I ask. At her feet, a white dog wriggles with joy. I bend down to give it a scratch under the chin. It’s good to see you.
High School Me nods. “I was drawing,” she says.
“Right. I used to do that, too.” Why did I stop? “Can you take a break? We need your help with something. I promise it’s important.”
High School Me looks back inside, where her sketchpad beckons. I know she won’t protest; she’ll only stand rooted to the spot, stubborn yet scared of upsetting me, with one tentative hand on the doorframe.
“Let me get my shoes,” she says at last. They are a pair of Union Jack converse. Sigh.
First there’s the me strolling down St George Street, yellow backpack on one arm. She is going through a lipstick phase and wears a bright purple shade outside her lip lines. God, my bangs look so greasy. Even though she hasn’t been through anything hard yet, she is empathetic: an easy recruit.
Next is the me at her first corporate job. Seeing us file in between the desks, her eyes go wide; she comes with us less out of a desire to help and more out of fear that her boss will notice several unannounced guests crowding her desk. “I’m on lunch early,” she tells her desk mate, and slings an expensive-looking blue handbag over her shoulder.
Next, we knock on a front door at the top of a steep driveway; inside, a shrill barking resounds. The girl who answers the door is small and plain, with freckles across her nose.
“You busy?” I ask. At her feet, a white dog wriggles with joy. I bend down to give it a scratch under the chin. It’s good to see you.
High School Me nods. “I was drawing,” she says.
“Right. I used to do that, too.” Why did I stop? “Can you take a break? We need your help with something. I promise it’s important.”
High School Me looks back inside, where her sketchpad beckons. I know she won’t protest; she’ll only stand rooted to the spot, stubborn yet scared of upsetting me, with one tentative hand on the doorframe.
“Let me get my shoes,” she says at last. They are a pair of Union Jack converse. Sigh.
* * *
I will need all of them to help me recruit the next me.
We find her curled up on the side of a High Park hill, earbuds in. This is a version of me I find hard to look at: a me ravaged by grief that should have passed by now.
Together, we all crouch around her, like passersby finding an animal injured in the road. This may be our first test. Of all of us, High School Me looks the most worried. I catch Corporate Me rolling her eyes.
I approach, closer than the others, and put a hand on this me’s shoulder. “We need your help,” I say, as gently as I can.
She blinks up with her tear-damp face and shakes her head. “That’s kind of you.” She smears her eyes. “But I’m not much good to anyone right now. Let alone myself.”
We sit with her for a while. It’s okay, we murmur. There is a coffee cup near her hand, and I drink the last few cold sips—an hours-old maple latte.
After a while, she sits up. Her platinum hair glows in the sun, dark at the roots. It would take a few more iterations of me to learn how to take care of my hair.
“Okay,” she says, and takes a deep breath. “I’m ready.”
We find her curled up on the side of a High Park hill, earbuds in. This is a version of me I find hard to look at: a me ravaged by grief that should have passed by now.
Together, we all crouch around her, like passersby finding an animal injured in the road. This may be our first test. Of all of us, High School Me looks the most worried. I catch Corporate Me rolling her eyes.
I approach, closer than the others, and put a hand on this me’s shoulder. “We need your help,” I say, as gently as I can.
She blinks up with her tear-damp face and shakes her head. “That’s kind of you.” She smears her eyes. “But I’m not much good to anyone right now. Let alone myself.”
We sit with her for a while. It’s okay, we murmur. There is a coffee cup near her hand, and I drink the last few cold sips—an hours-old maple latte.
After a while, she sits up. Her platinum hair glows in the sun, dark at the roots. It would take a few more iterations of me to learn how to take care of my hair.
“Okay,” she says, and takes a deep breath. “I’m ready.”
* * *
There are a few more left to gather. Grad School Me, wearing a smart blazer, is giving a presentation in a maze-like building with peeling carpets, and we pile near the cracked-open door and listen to her voice.
“She sounds so young,” says the me we had to board a train to find; she was in a window seat eating a baguette. She is the only me that none of us know yet, and I wonder where she was going and what she had planned, but resist asking. She creeps me out a bit, the way she looks at me full of knowing.
We are all curious about one another. “Does it ever end?” Corporate Me asks Baguette Me, shoving her bag strap up her arm; it keeps sliding off her polyester blouse. “How boring it all is? Work, home, chores, repeat? Do I ever…” She stops and looks around at the other me's, then continues in a lower voice, “Do we ever stop being lonely?”
Baguette Me shakes her head with an enigmatic smile. “No. And yes.” She, of all of us, has the hair situation figured out: soft, effortless, a natural color. My natural color. She takes Corporate Me’s manicured hand in her plain one and tucks it under her arm, a motherly gesture. “It’s not boring. None of it. It’s the most wonderful thing there is.”
“She sounds so young,” says the me we had to board a train to find; she was in a window seat eating a baguette. She is the only me that none of us know yet, and I wonder where she was going and what she had planned, but resist asking. She creeps me out a bit, the way she looks at me full of knowing.
We are all curious about one another. “Does it ever end?” Corporate Me asks Baguette Me, shoving her bag strap up her arm; it keeps sliding off her polyester blouse. “How boring it all is? Work, home, chores, repeat? Do I ever…” She stops and looks around at the other me's, then continues in a lower voice, “Do we ever stop being lonely?”
Baguette Me shakes her head with an enigmatic smile. “No. And yes.” She, of all of us, has the hair situation figured out: soft, effortless, a natural color. My natural color. She takes Corporate Me’s manicured hand in her plain one and tucks it under her arm, a motherly gesture. “It’s not boring. None of it. It’s the most wonderful thing there is.”
* * *
It’s the middle of the night when we get to her apartment. We fan out, past an entryway table with keys and scattered mail, a kitchen doorway, a dining table with a dirty plate and a vase of wilted flowers. Lipstick Me stops to look with curiosity at the shadowy shapes of the painting above the couch; Grad School Me nearly trips over an empty cardboard box in the entryway. “Why would I leave this here?” she mutters.
“ADHD,” I respond.
Her bedroom door opens soundlessly. One by one, as if processing down a church aisle, we file in.
“Are we sleeping?” Lipstick Me whispers. Corporate Me elbows her.
One might think so, seeing her at first. But she’s still awake, even if she hasn’t noticed us. She tosses onto her side, then onto her back; then she raises her hands to her face, her elbows in the air, and her shoulders shake with silent sobs.
I look at the others, hoping someone will say something. All this time, all this effort to get here, all this collecting of and being nice to old me’s. But now that I’m here, I’m rooted to the spot, unsure what to do. Lipstick Me takes my hand, looking to hold onto something. Grad School Me watches, recognition on her face.
High Park Me drops her face into her hands. “I can’t believe it’s happening again.”
Baguette Me puts an arm around her. “It won’t be the last time.” A promise; a curse.
Behind us, the door creaks. We all start.
A little girl peeks into the room, hugging the edge of the door. Her hair is cut in a mushroom shape. Watching us, she nibbles on the nail of one finger. Her eyes go to the bed and the lump of woman that inhabits it.
She steps into the room. Her shoes are black and shiny, with T-straps, and her dress has an animal print in shades of blue and yellow and green.
We all look at her, and she looks at all of us, eyes wide, not saying a word. Noticing High Park Me’s tears, she reaches up and grabs her fingers in her small hand.
Together, they move quietly to the edge of the bed. The little girl climbs atop it. That’s when this me, the Heartbroken Me, notices her, and for a moment they stare at each other, blinking in the darkness.
Then the little girl slides her arms around this me’s neck and settles into her arms.
High Park Me is next. She eases herself onto the bed and curls her body protectively around the pair.
From there, we each join in as well as we can. All of us being there for each other. Corporate Me drops her bag by the desk and throws her arms around us. I find myself with my cheek squished against Grad School Me’s blazer. This me still cries at first. But eventually she quiets, and in the darkness her eyes find me.
She is the me who scares me the most. I’m frightened by her sadness. But still I extend a hand to her, and she takes it.
“ADHD,” I respond.
Her bedroom door opens soundlessly. One by one, as if processing down a church aisle, we file in.
“Are we sleeping?” Lipstick Me whispers. Corporate Me elbows her.
One might think so, seeing her at first. But she’s still awake, even if she hasn’t noticed us. She tosses onto her side, then onto her back; then she raises her hands to her face, her elbows in the air, and her shoulders shake with silent sobs.
I look at the others, hoping someone will say something. All this time, all this effort to get here, all this collecting of and being nice to old me’s. But now that I’m here, I’m rooted to the spot, unsure what to do. Lipstick Me takes my hand, looking to hold onto something. Grad School Me watches, recognition on her face.
High Park Me drops her face into her hands. “I can’t believe it’s happening again.”
Baguette Me puts an arm around her. “It won’t be the last time.” A promise; a curse.
Behind us, the door creaks. We all start.
A little girl peeks into the room, hugging the edge of the door. Her hair is cut in a mushroom shape. Watching us, she nibbles on the nail of one finger. Her eyes go to the bed and the lump of woman that inhabits it.
She steps into the room. Her shoes are black and shiny, with T-straps, and her dress has an animal print in shades of blue and yellow and green.
We all look at her, and she looks at all of us, eyes wide, not saying a word. Noticing High Park Me’s tears, she reaches up and grabs her fingers in her small hand.
Together, they move quietly to the edge of the bed. The little girl climbs atop it. That’s when this me, the Heartbroken Me, notices her, and for a moment they stare at each other, blinking in the darkness.
Then the little girl slides her arms around this me’s neck and settles into her arms.
High Park Me is next. She eases herself onto the bed and curls her body protectively around the pair.
From there, we each join in as well as we can. All of us being there for each other. Corporate Me drops her bag by the desk and throws her arms around us. I find myself with my cheek squished against Grad School Me’s blazer. This me still cries at first. But eventually she quiets, and in the darkness her eyes find me.
She is the me who scares me the most. I’m frightened by her sadness. But still I extend a hand to her, and she takes it.
J.E. Bartel is a Canadian expat living in Scotland. Her work has been featured in The Spectatorial and Ekstasis.