I go for a walk and end up in the music building where I
wander around through the empty corridors before finding a trash bag that is
definitely going to the dumpster that night. I release the crumpled, and now
damp from the sweat of my hand, paper pieces, and watch them flutter in around
the rest of the trash in the bag. I then push down the feelings of overwhelming
sadness that threaten to envelope me and decide I have to try and wear myself
out with exercise. I decide to swim as I’m certain I can’t cry with my goggles
on.
I dive into the cold water.
The school only just reopened the pool two weeks ago and
there hasn’t been time for it to come up to its usual temp yet. The rush of
this icy sheath against my skin seems to purge my senses at first and I think I
am saved by this baptism. Stroke after stroke, with only the sound of my own
body rhythmically breathing in and blowing out air, I do ten laps, then twenty.
As I make the turn into lap 28 . . . epiphany. I know how I will respond. I
suddenly can’t wait to finish swimming but can’t stop. My speed picks up,
thirty laps, forty laps, fifty. The adrenaline surge kicks in—a mile. My
fingers and toes are now numb. Anesthetized.
I should have recognized the first signs. But, I don’t.
Everyone in the dorm is exhausted. Exams are next week. But, I am wide awake
and not tired. I type up my bitter response and then head to bed. Lying in bed,
I start to shiver and the tears start to come. Sleep eludes me most of the
night.
On Saturday, I clean my room, trying to work, work, work,
seeking the solace of exhaustion. I do some studying and, at night, drink warm
milk depending upon its soporific qualities. It works. I sleep from 11:30 to
4:30 and then fitfully until 7:30 on Sunday. At 8:00 I write, write, write,
trying desperately to puke up something more meaningful than the hairball of
bitterness that’s forming in my belly. I’m not jealous—a state of mind I can’t
even imagine myself into—although his disclosure that it is Leslie Solinski is
a literary irony that would put even Charles Dickens to shame. I swim another
mile and write, write, write. I have decided not to send my first response and
have written something much, much shorter.
At the start of a relationship, there’s mutual consent.
The end can take place by the sheer will of one. It is a rape of sorts where
the will of one person is forced upon another without consent. In our case, it
is especially difficult for me to understand as it seemed by all standards I am
used to monitoring in a relationship, everything was great, headed for a climax
of magnificent proportions.
The only clue I have that my body needs food is the
gnawing sensation in my gut. Nothing has a taste and I force feed myself with
what I remember to be my favorite foods. I can’t even tell if I’m full only that
the gnawing has stopped. Monday morning comes and I’m still gagging on my own
saliva, finding his announcement difficult to swallow. I work on a problem
that’s been hounding me for a month. I actually might pass the statistics exam.
I run a mile and half even though the cigarettes I like to smoke on weekends
make my chest burn. I try to find my sense of humor in the top-40 tunes that
play through my radio imagining that he feels the way some of those songs
sound. Around 6:00 I feel the melancholy start to move through my bloodstream,
a knock resounds on my frontal lobe and inside my head I scream, “Go away!”
Day four . . . oh Christ! I’d forgotten this part—the
self-loathing begins. “You are an idiot; did you really think it would last?
You’re not pretty enough, sexy enough, you make yourself too available, you
love too easily.” Synapses firing like a semi-automatic, I have an insatiable
desire to know everything about her. How did they meet? How long has it been
going on? Besides her being so very near him, what else attracts him? Where
does she live? Does he sleep with her? But, most importantly . . . does she treat him well? I want him,
above all else, to be happy.
I am angry in a selfish way. He has not entirely ended us.
I think, “How dare he suppose that I could possibly understand? Has he no mercy
for my feelings? Be a man, thrust the dagger in all the way, kill me
completely, but don’t leave me suffering like a wounded animal. If you’re going
to close the door, close it all the way. Leaving it open a crack is cruel.” I
wonder at this keeping the door open. Why is that? What does trust have to do
with all of this? I am so grateful for that open door.
I take a shower and snap, another synapse fires. I ball up
my second response and throw it in my trash can. I compose a third one.
Dear Thomas,
Your bomb successfully landed and since I am already your
conquered nation, your wish is my command. I noticed you left the door open a
crack, so I’ll return the favor and leave a candle burning in the window. Must
say, I was surprised considering . . . well that’s irrelevant now I suppose, so
never mind.
The Tempest;
Act 5, Scene 1 MIRANDA
O, wonder!; How many goodly creatures are there here!; How beauteous mankind
is! O brave new world, That has such people in’t!
Copyright DJ Anderson, 2007
