It didn't occur to me that I was undergoing a classic anxiety attack, and it's probable that the realization wouldn't have helped, anyway.
When we resumed our seats for the second act, Shura didn't reach for my hand as he usually did. I sat stiffly beside him, wondering how I was going to recapture my usual calm casualness and sense of humor.
We were both strained and careful for the rest of the evening, and at bedtime, we turned our backs to each other and went to sleep without the customary affectionate words and touches.
Much later, I understood that Shura hadn't been prepared to see me - without warning, in the middle of a pleasant evening at the theater - in such a state of pathetic confusion. I had sworn to him I would not be a victim, that I would not put him in the position of victimizer, if he let me become part of his life at this difficult, anxious time, and there I was, huddled like a lost waif against the lobby wall, looking at him beseechingly, piercing him with guilt. He had frozen and become distant, not knowing what else to do.
There were days when I found myself more than usually vulnerable, more sensitive to the wall inside Shura and the subtle emotional withholding that I understood and accepted intellectually, and feelings of inadequacy would flood me, thickening the air between us. At such times, he gradually withdrew, his face changing from open to defensive, then to hard and cold.
However/ these incidents tended to happen at the beginning of the weekend, and after a night's sleep, I usually awoke with my courage and ease restored, and we could relax and laugh with each other for the rest of our hours together, before I had to leave for work early Monday morning.
Shura acknowledged and was critical of his own tendency to a particular kind of quiet arrogance, but I didn't find this aspect of him unappealing. It not only gave him a necessary strength, but was - in my view - the kind of elitism that many children born with very high intelligence learn to carry within them, if they are not to be crushed by the hostility of their peers when their gifts first become apparent in school.
Besides, as I told him, what he called arrogance might just as well be called self-validation, and as long as it never expressed itself in such a way as to make somebody else feel inadequate - and I had never seen that happen - it was a damned good thing to have.
I had come to know enough highly intelligent people in my life to understand what most of them had gone through, when they were too young to realize that the bright one is the enemy to his classmates, unless they had been lucky enough to be placed in a special school with others equally gifted. Most of them hadn't been that lucky. Some of them had been permanently scarred by these early experiences. As adults, they either continued to censor themselves, to speak diffidently, avoiding words or phrases which might reveal intelligence beyond the average, or they became - like Kelly - neurotically aggressive, confrontational, even insulting to many of the people they had to deal with. Either way, they were always aware of a sense of un-belonging, and lived with a deep-seated, ever-present loneliness.
Shura had not fallen into either trap. He had somehow learned or decided, by the time I met him, to be simply what he was, making no effort to hide any aspect of himself. By teaching, year after year, he developed patience, finding ways to make clear to his undergraduate students the concepts he wanted them to master. He told me that he knew it was up to him to find the words and the right way to put them together, and when a student failed to understand, he accepted the responsibility for that failure; it meant he hadn't taught well enough.
But there was a part of him that sometimes got angry and frustrated, and it emerged in a form I had no way of recognizing or preparing for. The first time it happened, it rang no alarm bells at all.
One weekend evening, after seeing a movie, we went to a small cafe and ordered cheeseburgers. While we ate, Shura told me he was seriously considering giving up his Farm and moving to some place in Northern California where nobody knew him and he had no ties to anyone. He explained, between bites, that he was tired of people, tired of everything, and thought it was time to pull up stakes and start a new life, probably keeping to himself for the most part, he added, so that he could avoid getting involved in other people's problems or imposing on them with his own.
I sat there and stared at him, wondering what had triggered such bitterness, hoping I was not included among the people he was tired of, but not daring to ask. I was very disturbed at the thought that he might actually sell his beautiful place and go away, and said so. He shrugged and changed the subject.
When we talked on the phone later in the week, nothing further was said about such a plan or intention, and I eventually dismissed it as a brief mood of sadness and anger which had passed and didn't have to be taken seriously.
The next time it happened, many weeks later, the strangeness lasted three days, and came close to being a disaster.
I arrived at the Farm one Friday, and it was immediately apparent that something was wrong.
After an abrupt greeting, Shura turned away, informing me that he had a great deal of work to do at his desk and I would have to take care of myself for a while. I assured him I would be fine, wondering to myself what was wrong.
While I prepared dinner, Shura would occasionally stride through the house, silent, his face grim, as if everything he saw, including me, was somehow wrong, wrong. His few words to me were stilted, excessively polite, and there wasn't a trace of his marvelously wicked sense of humor.
We ate in silence. I sank into a state of profound misery, certain that he was through with me, that my faults had driven him to total exasperation, and that he was about to ask me to get out of his life.
After clearing the table, I said in a soft voice that I was going to wash the dishes and watch television and relax, while he got his work done. He nodded and took his wine into the study.
I didn't question the sudden change of personality; I took for granted that I was the cause of whatever negativity he was feeling. After cleaning up, I sat at the dining room table, hands folded tightly in my lap. When he came out of his office and passed through the room, ignoring me, I said, hesitatingly, to his retreating back, "Have I done something to make you angry, Shura?"
"No," he answered, curtly, and continued on his way.
Of course, I didn't believe him.
More than an hour later, I finally got up the courage to go to his study and face whatever had to be faced. I stood just inside the door, hands clasped before me, humbly waiting.
When he looked up from his desk, it was to speak in a voice tight with anger, "I'm so sick, sick, of being the one who has to solve everything for everybody. I'm sick of being the candy-man, the one who busts his ass in the lab to create new materials, new tools for exploring the human mind and how it works, while everyone around me only wants another trip. Nobody cares one whit about real research, real investigation, real work in this area. Nobody else wants to go to the trouble of writing and publishing what they've discovered through the use of these drugs. They just look to me to turn them on, give them goodies. Not a single one of them cares about me, just me, for my own sake. It's the candy-man they love, not Shura Borodin."
I stood there, stunned. It was the most appalling self-pity, and completely unlike him.
I stammered, "Of course, you have a lot of responsibilities, you do a lot for people, but you must know your friends love you deeply, Shura, candy or no candy! You can't really believe what you're saying, all this -"
"Yes, I do believe it," he shouted, banging his desk with a fist, "I know it!" He lowered his voice and continued, "I fool myself most of the time into thinking there's real love and caring, but it's all a pathetic delusion, and it's time I faced it. It's time I gave all this up and moved to a different place. I'm going to sell this house and move to the north, where nobody knows what I do, and I'll start over, away from all of you. I'm not even going to tell anybody I'm going. I just won't be around, one day, and everyone will have to take responsibility for themselves. I won't be the
re to solve all their damned problems."
Whose damned problems has he been solving; what's he talking about? I ventured a bit further into the room, not daring to sit down yet, because I suspected that all this was actually some kind of displacement of anger at me, or anger at himself for having kept me around, for being too weak to wait for Ursula without the distraction and comfort of being with another woman.
I asked again, "Have I made you angry in some way?" "Well, you haven't been much help," he said, glaring at me, "You leave things all over the house; there's junk everywhere that you never seem to take care of. I know I'm not the neatest person in the world, but when I have to face your mess as well as my own, it's just too much, too much! I need some order in my home, otherwise I simply cannot function. And - while we're on the subject of what's making me angry - you insist on bringing too much food here, no matter how often I ask you not to. I don't usually say anything about any of this, because your insecurity makes me feel I have to treat you with kid gloves, or you'll come apart at the seams."
I stood, turned to stone, looking at the flushed, angry face. He went on, grimly, "I should never have allowed you to do this to yourself - this ridiculous situation with me and Ursula -
and I blame myself for letting it all go on, to the point where it's going to cause a lot of pain all round. Stupid, stupid! It's an impossible situation and I've been stupid to let it happen." He struck his forehead with an open hand, and I turned and left the room, closing the door behind me very quietly, my chest and throat clogged with tears.
We went to bed without speaking to each other. Shura had been drinking a lot of wine, and fell asleep immediately, while I stared into the darkness, crying silently until I was too exhausted to resist the pull of sleep.
The next day, I stayed in the living room, knowing that I should pack my things and leave, even though it was only Saturday. I kept hoping that Shura would come in and say everything was all right, that I could stay, that he wanted me there. He didn't. I could hear him, now and then, slamming out of the back door on his way to the lab, and I huddled on the couch and cried, hope dying, angry at him for his incredible unfairness, hating myself for being at fault, loving him, wondering what to do. I knew he was right, that I had done so many things to cause him to lose patience. I was disorganized, self-indulgent, essentially lazy, careless, and yes, depressingly insecure. The insecurity was understandable, certainly, but it was a burden he shouldn't have to carry.
Once, when I heard him in the kitchen, opening the refrigerator, I thought of making him lunch, but after what had been said, and what I suspected he had not yet expressed of his resentment, I didn't dare. I tried to read, but couldn't. Everything we had been to each other, with each other, was over. The graceful ending I had planned when Ursula arrived to stay, the dignified, loving closing of the door, the final closing - if it turned out to be final - was never to happen. Instead, it was all ending with me as a swollen-eyed, hurt, bewildered victim who didn't even have the courage to gather her things and go, as he was obviously waiting for me to do.
It was dusk when Shura came in and sat down in the armchair, and tried to tell me what was going on, as best he could.
"I'm sorry, Alice. You've just had your first glimpse of an aspect of my world that I can't explain. It happens sometimes, this strange state of mind, and I don't know what triggers it.
It's like a dark thing inside me that takes over. I feel completely alone, and I can't believe in anybody or anything; I lose all feelings of trust. There's only anger, at everybody - myself most of all. Everything I'm doing, everything I plan to do, seems suddenly pointless, meaningless. I hope you'll be able to sit it out and forgive whatever I said that might have hurt you. I do get annoyed at you, sometimes, as I'm sure you do with me, but my intention was not to undermine you, wound you, and I'm very grateful - or I would be if I could feel gratitude - well/ some part of me is grateful that you stayed. That's all I can say."
I sat, looking at the blur of his face in the shadows, able to see only the shine of hair and beard. I was in a state of shock, thoughts and emotions tangled in a confusion of fear, grief and shame, still expecting a final dismissal.
Only the Observer was keeping track. It slowly got its message through, informing me that I didn't have to leave, that this morning's explosion had not been ultimate truth-telling, that it was time I stopped crying. Act with dignity, it said; get up and go over to him, but don't touch.
I rose and went to the hassock, where I sat a few inches from his knees and said, "Are you still in this - this darkness - now, or is it over with?"
"No, I'm afraid it isn't over with yet. Bear with me, please. I would appreciate your company, even though I probably won't have much to say, for a while."
His voice had an unfamiliar dullness to it.
77z;s ;s called depression. This is unquestionably acute depression. But ri^ht now, I keep my mouth shut.
"Would it be all right if I got you something to eat?"
Shura's head thudded against the back of the armchair and he cried, "Oh/ for God's sake, I'm not going to bite! You don't have to be so damned tentative; it makes me feel like a monster!"
"Sorry. I'll get you a bit of supper."
I escaped into the kitchen and put a couple of frozen dinners into the oven, then went to the bathroom and combed my hair and put a little lipstick on - Shura didn't like makeup of any kind, so I used just enough to take the pallor out of my mouth. There was nothing I could do about my eyelids or the redness around the eyes. I looked drawn and ugly to myself, pathetic and not in the least appealing.
Dinner was silent again. When I stole a glance at Shura's face, he no longer seemed angry; he looked sad and far away.
He thanked me politely for supper and excused himself to go to his office and finish some letters. I said I would watch television for a bit, or read, and that I would be perfectly fine on my own. We both knew it was best that we continue being apart for a while.
When Shura was in his office/ I washed the few dishes and cleaned every surface in sight, moving quietly so that he wouldn't hear sounds and come out to see what was going on; I didn't want him to feel more guilt at having said so much about tidiness.
When the cleaning was finished/1 turned on the television and went around the living room picking up my things. I hung my coat properly in the closet behind the front door/ gathered my art pad/ paints and brushes together/ packed them in the shopping bag I'd brought them in/ and put the bag next to the couch.
Then I sat and focused my eyes on the television screen. I saw and heard almost nothing/ my thoughts scrambling in an effort to organize information. After a while/1 noticed that my breathing was uneven and my body tense/ almost rigid. I deliberately relaxed my muscles and rotated my head to ease the tightness in neck and back.
When Shura came to call me to bed/1 was already in my robe/ teeth brushed/ hormone pills swallowed, my hair combed again. In bed, there was no attempt at lovemaking. He put his arm around my shoulders and drew my head onto his chest. We fell asleep listening to Stravinsky's sad, wistful Petrouchka on the radio.
By the time I left for work on Monday morning, the worst of it seemed to be over. When he phoned me on Tuesday evening, his voice carried the usual enthusiasm and there was no doubt that his sense of humor had returned in full force.
I eventually gave these eruptions of Shura's dark side my own name: The Siberian Wastelands. A long time later, I had a talk with Theo, who supplied some of the missing pieces. He told me that these episodes had been going on ever since he was a small boy. They always began the same way, he said. If there were any dishes in the sink which had not been washed, his father would suddenly start washing them. "Usually," said Theo, "Dad left dishes and cleaning to my mother, and when you're around, he leaves all that kind of stuff to you, right?"
"Sure," I said, "He takes care of basic tidying up when he's alone, but when I'm here on weekends, I do it. He certainly doesn't seem compulsive about any of it
, normally."
"Exactly," said Theo, "A few dirty mugs and forks don't bother him, except when one of these attacks is starting. I learned very early that, whenever I saw Dad at the sink, washing dishes and scrubbing the counters with that intense look on his face, it was time for me to take to the hills. I just split, went out to the barn or up on the hill, keeping out of his sight until it was supper time and I had to come back in the house." He laughed.
I wondered to myself if Ursula had ever been around when the Wastelands struck.
The next time that Shura went into his attack of depression and anger, many months later, I had an inspiration. I asked him if he would take MDMA with me, and he agreed, while making clear that he thought it a pointless experiment.
Within forty minutes, his tense, angry face had cleared and he was sitting in his armchair, smiling at me. A few minutes later, he held out his arms and demanded that I come over and sit on his lap, right now, pronto, immediately.
Siberia had been defeated.
I knew it was not a resolution of the conflicts his psyche was dealing with, but there was no question that MDMA was effective against this particular form of shark attack from the depths.
Shura still occasionally let loose his dark side when he'd had a large amount of wine, indulging in elaborate sarcasm and sharp-edged teasing, but the Siberian Wastelands never overtook him in the old way again.
Eventually, I discovered - quite by accident - how to defuse the occasional wine-released nastiness. One evening, when he had been honing his verbal fencing skills even more aggressively than usual, at my expense, it struck me suddenly that the whole attack had slipped over the line from clever thrusts to ridiculous overkill - and I started laughing. I laughed until I was doubled over, and when I regained some control and straightened up, a glimpse of Shura's astonished face set me off again. It was a losing battle for him; he sputtered, chuckled a few times, then gave in, howling with laughter, until we were holding onto each other for dear life - weak, gasping and feeling absolutely wonderful.
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