[I wrote this poem on my last day as a full-time nurse in a psychiatric emergency room in new york city.]

"You Kind Of Had To Be There"

—

It was a big love. It was late-night stories and early-morning banter kind of love. The kind of love that is a divine disruption to your reality.  The kind of love that keeps you up till 730am. The kind of love that has you endlessly asking open-ended questions. The kind of love that is constantly confronting you with how lucky you are. The kind of love you want to tell everyone you meet about but you kind of had to be there for. 

It was the heart-filled comfort of Filipino cooking, it was begging for more of that Jamaican jerk chicken. It was midnight snacking on red jellos, kosher puddings, and Mott apple juices. It was a menu of late-night cocktails that were exclusively drawn up in syringes.

It was impassioned conversations about consent or lack thereof.  It was learning that touch isn’t always healing. It was the inappropriate choice of laughter because you couldn’t bear to keep crying. It was the quiet sanctuary of a bathroom floor. It was a fierce independence that turned into a sloppy codependency (with the panic button).

It was the explosive aggression of the Broadway star after a night of smoking K2, the homicidal woman about to have a baby, the biological man pregnant with lizard twins, the secret alcoholism of the American Ballerina, the strength of the single father to call 911 on himself, the billionaire who threw his "always recognized but rarely seen" Amex Black Card at my head, the late night tv star that assured me I was a f*****g c**t, the supermodel who didn't remember who she was, the endearing and gentle lives behind shocking NY Post cover stories, the honeymooner whose manic episode caused the plane to emergency land, the Ivy League student desperately hiding his first schizophrenic break, the elementary school teacher who stopped taking her Abilify, the sassy teenager who communicated only in hashtags, the refugee with trauma so severe he sat catatonic and mute, the financial tycoon who survived his second suicide attempt, the active duty military personnel who didn't trust herself with her own gun, the con artist faking it all to get away from his parole officer, the known murderer whose chilling words shook my legs indefinitely, the wannabe ISIS member who was too disorganized to get in touch with ISIS.

It was being a brand new nurse and having a twenty-something addicted to heroin gently teach you the best way to stick a needle in a vein. It was being 26 and not knowing what to say to the inconsolable subway conductor who just killed the person who jumped in front of his train.

It was fighting to stay present to each experience after the eleventh hour and fighting to not take home each experience after the twelfth.

It was being outraged with the status quo, it was knowing the status quo is the best we have.  It was the terrible reality of seeing a patient come back again and again, it was the quiet comfort in knowing they're still alive. It was seeing people terrified of themselves, it was learning to see myself in them. It was nakedness, exposure, vulnerability, and failure. It was inclusivity, mercy, forgiveness, and surrender. It was a psychiatric emergency room in New York City. It was, at times, the furthest I've ever felt from myself. It was, at times, the closest I've ever felt to God.

No one said love would be easy and you definitely were not. Maybe that's why I liked you so much. Like the best of lovers, you transformed my every cell forever changing the shape I will take in this world. I will step forward softer and stronger for having stood beside you in your most broken places. I am grateful for each experience, violently dark and playfully light, that we shared.  Although our time together is ending, our love is not. And perhaps, that's my favorite thing about big love.

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