A Letter to the Man on Arizona Avenue Who Asked Me to Smile
I wanted someone to blame for the anguish I’ve suffered through this year
It was winter in Los Angeles in 2023, the sun still harsh despite the cold breeze. In one of my daily walks to the office, you, a middle-aged white man, were about to step inside your car parked along the sidewalk when you saw me walking with my shoulders slouched and my head down, skin wrinkled between my eyebrows.
Out of nowhere, I heard you call out, “It can’t be that bad!” Unsure if I heard you correctly, I looked up to check if that message was supposed to be for me. I caught your eye and responded, “I’m sorry?” You repeated, “It can’t be that bad. The day’s just getting started! That pretty face could use a smile.” You smiled at me, as if to demonstrate how easy and effortless it was. I wished you a good day and bid you goodbye as we both went on with our mornings.
I won’t go down the rabbit hole of the countless times men like you had the audacity to ask women like me to smile. Because for a moment there, as I was mindlessly walking the exact same route along Arizona Avenue as I always did every day, you did actually make me smile. I was lost in thought, bothered by brewing mental health challenges, so I welcomed the distraction.
Earlier in the week, I felt my anxiety disorder, often manifesting only in enclosed spaces outside of my apartment, started to seep through my home life. When I used to enjoy reading in silence in my living room, the anxiety would tell me that I’m having chest pain and that I could not breathe.
When I used to enjoy preparing meals and eating alone, my anxiety would tell me that I’m going to choke on the next bite. When I used to enjoy my solitude, the anxiety would tell me that I’m going to have a heart attack and no one would know about my death nor find my rotting dead body until only after a few days.
I had been grappling with this unwelcome occurrence of anxiety invading my safe space, but you reminded me that yes, of course, “It can’t be that bad.” I needed that reminder. I believed you. I’ve felt anxious many times before and I needed to believe that I was strong enough to deal with this temporary disturbance and that the anxiety would eventually go away. It did not.
When you told me, “It can’t be that bad,” did you know then that I would make four trips to the emergency room within the succeeding three months, and every single time the doctors would tell me that all tests returned normal? Did you know then that I would be prescribed at least seven different medications, and I would cycle through them on a trial-and-error basis until my care team and I landed on a combination that stabilized me?
Did you know then that my mother would fly out from Manila to Los Angeles to stay with me for two full months as I tried to recover and reintegrate myself back into the world? Did you know then that there would be nights before I fell asleep when I’d be in so much pain that I did not mind not waking up the morning after?
Amid the unending stream of intrusive thoughts that have permeated my mind, that have consequently manifested themselves as different forms of pain throughout my body, I never forgot about you and the irony of your words. It was as if you tempted the universe with my fate on the line, and the universe said, “Well, watch me.”
From thereon, my life has never been the same. As I’ve struggled through and experienced first-hand the debilitating nature of mental illness, I have validated several times that yes, it can be that bad.
These past few months, I could not find something or someone to blame for my condition. Pointing fingers would have been easy; it would have at least helped channel my anger in a controlled, targeted way. But as I am reminded of you, I want you to know that despite the timing of your words and the coincidental fallout afterwards, I do not blame you at all. That would be silly.
I want you to know that I believe that you had only the best intentions when you talked to me that day, as much as I believed you then that things weren’t as bad as they seemed. I want you to know that I have been preoccupied, slaying dragons in my head, yet I am still here, with the great fortune of being alive.
Dear stranger, I imagine I won’t be the last time you run into a person that isn’t flashing a big bright smile to start their day. When you encounter another person that radiates sadness or grief, I wish for you to not repeat the same mistake. Because boy, can life be hard. So instead of “It can’t be that bad,” say “It gets better,” or say “There’s always hope,” or actually, you know what?
Consider saying nothing at all.
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