All grandstanding aside, the crescendo crashed against the quiet of the cat hospital's professional barrier. I noticed my reflection in the window to resemble a deer in headlights; I was horrified by my outburst. Horrified that I lost control and yelled. But I had to confront that pustule of a woman-plural effusion needing to be drained with an 18-gage needle: it would allow all to see what was spitting out of those necrotic lungs- mendacity. A mendacity that targeted me—constricting my view to swinging doors and the back of everyone's head for an entire year. I came to and regained stoic composure. She stared at me—my coworker—lost for words. Ironic, really-I couldn't recall a moment she'd been quiet. I offered her a familiar view, one I had grown accustomed to, and let the door swing freely behind me. I spent the next fifteen minutes avoiding her by imitating a statue around the stairwell; stairs were a thing she avoided, and b-lined for my car once I happened upon noon. I reversed out of the narrow lot and began my drive up forty-four. Though I was safe for now in my lifeboat, either it or I swaying back and forth, my heart decided the timing was right to claw its way to my throat—leaving a sour taste. I swallowed hard, trying to keep it in check. But, it found its way to my skull at which point it loudly thumped against my eardrums. I imagined the thuds as thoughts pick-axing their way out of my mind and I furiously tried to silence it by holding my breath, then breathing the cold in deeply. Delayed anxiety?
That's how it begins. One last drop to disturb the surface tension and it spills—I'm angry. The anger begins to open up into different shapes; a self-fulfilling Chinese fortune teller, revealing something new in the folds as it becomes undone. I find myself on the receiving end of every emotion that materializes in the folds. A menagerie of basic, primal feelings marches by and I am left at "hopeless". When I am hopeless… when I arrive there at the station and step out onto the platform alone, I find a moment gives itself to me and a stranger; an uneasy calm, is introduced. Once we meet, the uneasy calm and I, I can finally think about how to pacify myself. Calm is not my final destination. How to clog the broken faucet of thoughts?
I leave the station. I'm back and look into my rearview mirror at myself, "Hi."
I touch my skin and feel the disruptions on the smooth underbelly of my arm. "Again?" It's not a redundant question; more or less of a suggestion. The box cutters and exact-o-knives open up their hands on the dance floor and with a bow, "May I?"
There is a high I get from resisting. I cycle over and over in a single moment with wanting to lose my shit and wanting to maintain control. It's not a good high. It's frustrating and empty; a pointless argument answered with "because". But I think about the solace steel brings- the silence that plugs up the faucet and the brief respite that ensues. An external resting ground where I can watch from afar as the memory scars into a silver line.
I am not a child. I don't want to pretend to hide it poorly. I don't want to be confused with being confused. I am not. I wear sweatshirts in the summer and winter. I wear pants all year-round. There are no accidental discoveries. There is no drama or lighting. When I have realized what I have done, when all the sharps in the bin have stopped holding my hand, and triple antibiotic ointment has been applied – I feel guilty. Regret, being a concave lens, lets me see briefly and I think about my credibility. Not to anyone else. To myself.
I lie on my back and find faces in the ceiling while the great flood of thoughts pushes out of my eyes and stings its way down my cheeks, onto dry land. In the cocktail of swirls over my vision, mixed with hyperventilation and a green luminescent residue only I can see when I blink—I see a face. It's not Jesus; I can assure you, nor anyone who'd attend his family reunion. It's not the great willow tree, my conscience, or the ghost of my father. It's a girl. She's looking up with soft features that I could never explain in words or lines – only shades and light. Younger than I and unaware of the trauma I had been planning, she's looking towards the center of the ceiling. At what, I do not know. I blink and the riverbank overflows. She's gone.
I begin to go and then I'm gone. Frayed ends frozen and locked behind my closed eyes. Gone, until next time.
That's how it begins. One last drop to disturb the surface tension and it spills—I'm angry. The anger begins to open up into different shapes; a self-fulfilling Chinese fortune teller, revealing something new in the folds as it becomes undone. I find myself on the receiving end of every emotion that materializes in the folds. A menagerie of basic, primal feelings marches by and I am left at "hopeless". When I am hopeless… when I arrive there at the station and step out onto the platform alone, I find a moment gives itself to me and a stranger; an uneasy calm, is introduced. Once we meet, the uneasy calm and I, I can finally think about how to pacify myself. Calm is not my final destination. How to clog the broken faucet of thoughts?
I leave the station. I'm back and look into my rearview mirror at myself, "Hi."
I touch my skin and feel the disruptions on the smooth underbelly of my arm. "Again?" It's not a redundant question; more or less of a suggestion. The box cutters and exact-o-knives open up their hands on the dance floor and with a bow, "May I?"
There is a high I get from resisting. I cycle over and over in a single moment with wanting to lose my shit and wanting to maintain control. It's not a good high. It's frustrating and empty; a pointless argument answered with "because". But I think about the solace steel brings- the silence that plugs up the faucet and the brief respite that ensues. An external resting ground where I can watch from afar as the memory scars into a silver line.
I am not a child. I don't want to pretend to hide it poorly. I don't want to be confused with being confused. I am not. I wear sweatshirts in the summer and winter. I wear pants all year-round. There are no accidental discoveries. There is no drama or lighting. When I have realized what I have done, when all the sharps in the bin have stopped holding my hand, and triple antibiotic ointment has been applied – I feel guilty. Regret, being a concave lens, lets me see briefly and I think about my credibility. Not to anyone else. To myself.
I lie on my back and find faces in the ceiling while the great flood of thoughts pushes out of my eyes and stings its way down my cheeks, onto dry land. In the cocktail of swirls over my vision, mixed with hyperventilation and a green luminescent residue only I can see when I blink—I see a face. It's not Jesus; I can assure you, nor anyone who'd attend his family reunion. It's not the great willow tree, my conscience, or the ghost of my father. It's a girl. She's looking up with soft features that I could never explain in words or lines – only shades and light. Younger than I and unaware of the trauma I had been planning, she's looking towards the center of the ceiling. At what, I do not know. I blink and the riverbank overflows. She's gone.
I begin to go and then I'm gone. Frayed ends frozen and locked behind my closed eyes. Gone, until next time.