It Was a Real Psychodrama

I awoke without her. Again. I wasn’t at all unhappy with that. We’d done our time. She was calm, sedate, soft-spoken. I was angry, fearful, and dark.

“I’m a product of my life experiences,” I told her the morning of her abortion. “And my life experiences have created a lot of demons that are inside of me…”

She wasn’t buying any of it. I could tell by the way she snickered at me. She asked me if I was breathing.

“Whaddaya mean,” I said.

She shook her head, lit a Pall Mall. “Never mind.”

“You’re always telling me never mind,” I said.

She shrugged, was silent. Then, wiping allergies from her eyes, said, “I wish I had an obsession like yours…something that would take my eyes off of the clock...” She was, of course, referring to my obsession with feeling like I was always caught up in the battle of good and…evil.

We met on the morning of the supermoon in May. During a time when I was avoiding mirrors and storefront windows.  She’d just come off an Ecstasy high someone had slipped her at a rave. Downtown, she tried to get inside my head. I let her. Our first conversation went something like this:

“You like your parents?” she asked.

I shrugged, looked at the ground, kicked some pebbles. “They’re alright,” I said.

She sort of chuckled, told me I had the body language of a seven-year-old, waited for my reaction (I had none), then added, “It’s okay…I like shy guys.”

I told her I wasn’t shy, I was reserved.” That’s what my grandmother told me to tell people whenever people called me shy.

“Okay,” she said with a little rise in her voice.

We didn’t talk much after that. There was a lot of silence, a lot of looking away. I felt like a total failure on the cool meter. Then I mumbled something that must have sounded to her like I was asking for her number because the next thing I knew, she’d shoved a piece of paper in my hand.

“Call me sometime,” she said and walked away, giving me a wiggly finger wave. She later told me she gave me her number because she felt sorry for me. Just the kind of moral booster I needed to hear. “But you grew on me,” she said with a shrug.

Right.

For the next 14 months, we spent our time speaking in non-sequiturs and trying to find an ethic between this matters not at all, and this matters more than you’ll ever know.

Then she had a change in form and appearance. Became tattoo-laden and bulimic. On the eve of omniscience, she mailed me a seven-page letter.

“The music has played. I’m finding my rhythm, I’m dancing to my own tune…making a fresh start, focusing on independence, original thinking, and in pursuit of daring concepts, rebuilding and repairing, permitting my imagination to roam, beautifying my surroundings, avoiding self-deception, giving full play to intellectual curiosity, asking many questions, keeping things flexible. There will be a change in itinerary… emphasizing my ‘main objective,’ avoiding those who take me for granted, letting it be known I mean business, protecting myself from emotional clinches…What I feared 48 hours ago will become a laughing matter tonight…”

It went on and on. I called her. “I’ve got a few questions,” I said.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” she said. “I’m finally healing. It took so many hours…but now I clearly know what I’m doing.”

I took a deep breath. “This letter,” I said.

“It’s the best thing I’ve ever written,” she said. “I didn’t use a dictionary or a thesaurus…”

“Yeah, but-“

“I’m very at ease with myself and very confident. I feel like such a badass.”

“What did you mean when you said…”

“Hold on, someone’s calling me.”

She put me on hold.

Ten minutes later.

“It’s long distance,” she said. “Let me call you back.”

She never did. I called her the next day, got her answering machine. I didn’t leave a message. I was too tired. Spent the next two days rereading the letter. I don’t know why. Guess I’m just a masochist.  Four days later, I got another letter from her.  It concluded, “I started to try to do things that I wasn’t really ready for. I’ve got this tortured yearning for salvation. I just want to go home.”

She signed her name in blood.

I rolled over and went back to sleep.a mean,” I said.

She shook her head, lit a Pall Mall. “Never mind.”

“You’re always telling me never mind,” I said.

She shrugged, was silent. Then, wiping allergies from her eyes, said, “I wish I had an obsession like yours…something that would take my eyes off of the clock...” She was, of course, referring to my obsession with feeling like I was always caught up in the battle of good and…evil.

We met on the morning of the supermoon in May. During a time when I was avoiding mirrors and storefront windows.  She’d just come off an Ecstasy high someone had slipped her at a rave. Downtown, she tried to get inside my head. I let her. Our first conversation went something like this:

“You like your parents?” she asked.

I shrugged, looked at the ground, kicked some pebbles. “They’re alright,” I said.

She sort of chuckled, told me I had the body language of a seven-year-old, waited for my reaction (I had none), then added, “It’s okay…I like shy guys.”

I told her I wasn’t shy, I was reserved.” That’s what my grandmother told me to tell people whenever people called me shy.

“Okay,” she said with a little rise in her voice.

We didn’t talk much after that. There was a lot of silence, a lot of looking away. I felt like a total failure on the cool meter. Then I mumbled something that must have sounded to her like I was asking for her number because the next thing I knew, she’d shoved a piece of paper in my hand.

“Call me sometime,” she said and walked away, giving me a wiggly finger wave. She later told me she gave me her number because she felt sorry for me. Just the kind of moral booster I needed to hear. “But you grew on me,” she said with a shrug.

Right.

For the next 14 months, we spent our time speaking in non-sequiturs and trying to find an ethic between this matters not at all, and this matters more than you’ll ever know.

Then she had a change in form and appearance. Became tattoo-laden and bulimic. On the eve of omniscience, she mailed me a seven-page letter.

“The music has played. I’m finding my rhythm, I’m dancing to my own tune…making a fresh start, focusing on independence, original thinking, and in pursuit of daring concepts, rebuilding and repairing, permitting my imagination to roam, beautifying my surroundings, avoiding self-deception, giving full play to intellectual curiosity, asking many questions, keeping things flexible. There will be a change in itinerary… emphasizing my ‘main objective,’ avoiding those who take me for granted, letting it be known I mean business, protecting myself from emotional clinches…What I feared 48 hours ago will become a laughing matter tonight…”

It went on and on. I called her. “I’ve got a few questions,” I said.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” she said. “I’m finally healing. It took so many hours…but now I clearly know what I’m doing.”

I took a deep breath. “This letter,” I said.

“It’s the best thing I’ve ever written,” she said. “I didn’t use a dictionary or a thesaurus…”

“Yeah, but-“

“I’m very at ease with myself and very confident. I feel like such a badass.”

“What did you mean when you said…”

“Hold on, someone’s calling me.”

She put me on hold.

Ten minutes later.

“It’s long distance,” she said. “Let me call you back.”

She never did. I called her the next day, got her answering machine. I didn’t leave a message. I was too tired. Spent the next two days rereading the letter. I don’t know why. Guess I’m just a masochist.  Four days later, I got another letter from her.  It concluded, “I started to try to do things that I wasn’t really ready for. I’ve got this tortured yearning for salvation. I just want to go home.”

She signed her name in blood.

I rolled over and went back to sleep.