I was slapped in the face with a banana peel on the C train. An angry, unstable man sat in the seat perpendicular to mine. He ate the fruit in an aggressive manner. Between chews, he kept saying in an accusatory tone, “You think you too pretty, ain’t chu?” I stared down at my knees, hoping he would go away. After he was finished eating, he slapped my face a few times with the peel, shouting, “I’m talkin’ to you!”
A good Samaritan shooed him off with a “Hey, man! Cut it out!” I was so grateful, as nowadays, people will more often pick up their phones before getting involved.
Another time, someone lit themselves on fire three seats away from me while we were underground and in between stops. I shrank back into a lady and her young daughter. The lady put her arm around me and brought me close in a huddle with them. I will never forget that gesture.
My favorite subway experience, though, is seeing a regular-looking guy on the train take out a bottle of hot sauce from his bag to pour over a Tupperware of rice. The bottle was practically empty, so he pushed some rice inside the small hole at its top, grain by grain, and then shook them out into his open mouth.
I’ve been followed home by creeps, screamed at multiple times by various unhinged people, spat on by an older lady in my neighborhood who tried to hustle me, and accosted by frightening strangers. New York City is no joke.
But I love it and the life I have here.
Growing up as I did prepared me for the unstable, unknowable, ill-fated, scornful, and curious sides of humanity. It also shaped me to appreciate the beautiful, magical, enchanting, uplifting, and miraculous aspects of life as well. NYC is a dichotomy of the integrity and the disrepute in all of us. I’ve been here for 16 years as of 2025, and I still haven’t “seen or conquered it all,” but I’m thriving as much as one can—one who doesn’t have a trust fund, wealthy parents, or a job in finance to depend on. I’m a Cajun girl from the bayou, a trailer baby (as my father would say), or trailer trash (a sentiment from an asshole ex-boyfriend), who lives and breathes for a full and better life.
I don’t make much in academia, and I’ve garnered modest achievements. Am I still alive? Yes. Do I have my own apartment, albeit miniscule? Yes. Do I have an education? A career? Yes. Yes. Have I made a great network of friends? Affirmative. Do I have hot water, some groceries in my fridge, and clothes on my back? Yes, yes, and yes.
I don’t take any of these for granted. Not one bit. I know I’m privileged. Sometimes I bitch and moan to myself about slight injustices and anxieties, but I know I’m fortunate to sustain a life in this city.
NYC is home. It’s like I’m living my dream through a fantastical kaleidoscope, notwithstanding a few broken lenses. And I know too well how I can easily become the woman screaming on the sidewalk or the person having a meltdown on the train.
Romantic relationships haven’t come easy either. I think I’ve dated half of New York City—women and men. For the past eight years, I’ve come to experience how I love you means little to a lot of people. They toss it about like Mardi Gras beads, expecting the recipient to be happy with a handful of plastic sentiments. What’s that they say? “Try, try again”? I’m weary.
But I am in love. I’ve learned to love myself and this wondrous place. I’ve realized an appreciation for all the beauty and foibles this life has to offer. I’ve garnered the knowledge to take chances over and again. It’s the only way I survive.
I’ve adopted this outlook through coping mechanisms to get through bouts of mental instability. Bi-polar 1, complex trauma disorder, anxiety, and sleep disorders have haunted me throughout my life. In 2016, I experienced a massive breakdown. Neurotic mania followed by a devastating depressive episode.
Some days, I’d wake sore and heavy—eyes cracked, red, and dry, due to a massive lack of sleep that’s symptomatic of bursts of psychosis or mixed manic episodes. My mind would rev with electric strands of Joycean-like thought. I would lie like a car on cinder blocks, wheels spinning into nowhere. Hot. Heavy. Awash in anxiety. I’d jump off the cinder blocks and out of bed. Throw open the window shade and scramble toward a million different things.
A few days or weeks later, the pendulum would swing. I would wake empty and listless; eyes swollen, watery, and tender due to a lack of sleep caused by catatonia and immense crying jags that are symptomatic of deep depressive episodes. There I’d lie: boggy, soggy, and inert. I would be sodden with indifference. I’d pull myself out of the bed with great effort and open the window shade, knowing well that the glare will sting from head to toe.
For those of us who have mood or trauma disorders—mild, severe, or multiple—mornings and nights can be a real son of a bitch. To be diagnosed with a plethora of these maladies makes my life a spaghettified cross between Adventure Time and anything in John Waters’s oeuvre. Some days, I’m the Ice King. Some days, I’m Marceline. Some days, I’m Edie in Pink Flamingos but with an Entenmann’s doughnut obsession in lieu of eggs.
I developed a morning method of self-care to help me pass as a somewhat composed and functioning member of society. My awareness of how close I can come to truly sinking under compels me to continue on.
I call it the Four S’s of Sentience: Shower, Soundtrack, Slap, and Style. They may seem superficial, but each of these gestures, when done consistently, sends a message through the fog and misfiring synapses to my subconscious that I want to care for and love myself.
First things first: Shower. I drag my addlepated carcass to the bathroom. The sensation of warm water and the motion of the bath pouf on my skin chips away at the inertia. If I’m really struggling, as I wash, I take the time to apologize to every part of my body—for being so hard on it and for being thankless for all it can and does do for me every day. I never forget that the subconscious is amenable to suggestion…
Next is Soundtrack: I get my Freddy Mercury mojo on. In the shower, it’s Donna Summer or anything ’80s that makes me feel pseudo-British, cheesy, and smiley. Out of the shower, something strong and sexy puts me in diva beast mode. As soon as I sit down for maquillage, it’s “Killer Queen,” and anything else funky, rocking, and full of moxie.
Slap: It has been described as “badly done makeup.” However, with the right approach, I will at least cover my bedraggled features and not look like a Leigh Bowery performance piece. I’ve found a few make-up coping tools to feel better about myself. Concealer is my best friend. Illuminating under-eye concealer is my fairy godmother. While in manic states, I do NOT try to apply liquid eyeliner or achieve symmetrical wingtips. I will come unhinged and possibly not make it out the door.
If my friends see me out in public without mascara, they know something’s up. It would take a house fire or an act of God for me to run out without it. Mascara can frame and open up swollen/beady eyes and make me look more alert than I really am.
Style is last: I usually wear something that makes me feel comfortable, confident, or at least sardonically indicative of the state I’m in. Colorful suspenders, that old Frankie Says Relax T-shirt, or a dress I spent way too much on during a manic bender that makes me feel like I can conquer anything.
There’s a litany of advice for the average person living in this city and with mental illness: prescriptions, exercise, cognitive therapy, etc. If you’re lucky enough to afford these things. But the greatest of these—the catalyst to seeking out treatment and wellness and seeing the wonderment in the mundane and the challenging—is something the average person can overlook: Love. Self-love above all else. It’s the main ingredient in resilience.
The opportunities that this city gives me every day to experience the best and worst of humanity are a blessing. Living the best and worst of myself is as well. Seeing someone on the street call after someone who’s dropped something, helping mothers with strollers up and down the subway stairs, or riders moving themselves over or taking time to give directions makes my little black heart expand. Expand with love for life and for those in it. And, of course, always love for New York City.
Jenne Hébert (she/her) grew up in the bayous of south Louisiana and throughout the Gulf Coast. She obtained an MFA from The New School and took a master class with Vivian Gornick, sparking a love for writing creative nonfiction. She lives in NYC, with her cat, Calliope, and is working on her first book of memoir essays.
Instagram: @lulu.rousse