Bodies pulse, join together, separate
Down and up, back and forth, swinging, swaying
Riding, as the music slithers,
Drops and suddenly starts again
Entranced within the invisible,
My heart palpitates in my ears
My pulse shivers, moving blood
An instant of comprehension
Lightheaded and underwater
We move, time skips by
Accelerating and coursing, seconds elapse
A fluid machine, electric shock
Notes reverberating through walls
April 21, 2005
Dark and light
I’m in art class this semester. Drawing 101. Our assignment was to draw a self-portrait, studying our faces in the mirror for hours on end, trying to replicate every nuance. Some do better than others. Now we’re sitting in class, sharing our work. A critique. Everyone’s work hangs on the wall, including mine. They are all studies of the human face from different angles, some looking very much like the artist and others quite a ways off. Mine is nothing like these. It’s a sore thumb, a bright red light in a sea of darkness. It’s the inner me, the demons, a mash up of details of a face, nose, lips, an eye with a huge tear drop about to fall, a bottle of vodka and shot glass, my journal, a tornado to represent my hectic life, a black storm cloud, my crazy secret, breaking over the scene. Everyone is staring at it when the teacher walks into the room.
He is late fifties, balding and a pervert. I can tell because when we did our studies of the human figure and had a nude model he had her posing in all kinds of provocative ways. Oh, why don’t you bend over like this, or stick your butt out like this. Gross. Sick bastard. But he’s a nice enough guy otherwise and a true artist from what I have seen of his stuff. He’s surveying our works now, chin in hand as he walks back and forth in front of the critique wall. I know he keeps catching on mine like a hangnail.
“Victoria, may I speak to you in the hall for a moment,” he finally says, turning around to face me. My heart starts to thud. Shit. It’s as if I’ve played some kind of prank or broken the rules with a flagrant disregard for my grade or anyone’s feelings. Time to go to the principal’s office little girl, I think, getting up from my chair to follow him into the hall.
He turns to face me, concern on his face, his little round glasses glinting in the art spotlight in the hallway.
“Yes?” I ask, my palms suddenly sweaty, feeling trapped here talking to him. This is every day for me now. My every day hell on earth. Created for me, customized for me, by who else: myself. How charming it is.
“I’m concerned, Victoria, you’ve been missing class lately, not concentrating on what you’re doing and it shows. I know something must be going on and I don’t need to know what it is but I want you to know that your grade is suffering.”
I nod, sweet, my grade is suffering. I need another stressor to add to my growing pile. I need that pile to topple over on my head so that I’ll have even more reason to kill myself. I smile grimly.
“Yes, things are going on in my personal life. I’m sorry. I’ll try to do better,” I mumble, trying to hold back my ever present damning cascade of tears.
“Victoria, there are times in class when I know you are really in the zone, creating things that are sad and tragic yet somehow beautiful at the same time. You have talent. Your self-portrait took creativity, a leap in the right direction. It is certainly not what I asked for, but I’m not sure I can ding you for doing something that is the essence of art, taking a chance.”
“Thank you, Sir,” I say, not sure what else to say.
“If you need to go to counseling or something you know we have resources here on campus?”
I nod again. It seems this is all I’m capable of. My constant high level of anxiety is just under the surface, just waiting for the worst moment to pop up, hence me leaving class early or not coming at all. I’m terrified of failure. Of wasting money on college, of admitting that my problem is getting bigger than I can handle alone.
“Listen, I’m not giving you a D in this class, but I can’t give you an A either. Try to up your attendance, please,” he finishes and motions that we should head back into the classroom. I breathe a sigh of relief. Back to the critique group. Every day feels like a critique group.
When I walk out of class at 8:00 pm I make a detour to the bathroom and pull my ever present water bottle from my backpack. The disguised vodka is a necessity now whenever I feel tense, as long as my supply holds out. I wish it was a sure thing but I know my work connection who buys me alcohol is not something that will last, plus I can’t ask him too much without it getting really annoying. But for now I’m on easy street, staring into the mirror at dead blood shot eyes surrounded by dark smoldering eye make-up, red lips and dark hair. I take a huge swig and then another until the world starts to feel a little less solid and a lot more fuzzy.
For some reason I’m looking good right now, strung out, some kind of dangerous, self-destructive sex-slut just a month off her 10 day antibiotics for her fucking awesome STD, drowning her fears with her confidence juice. I look away, not wanting to stare into my own eyes in the mirror because I know what I’ll see. Hatred, self-hatred of what I’ve become, of what I’ve let happen to me. Drinking at the wrong times, drinking to drown out the panic. I take another swill and smile to myself, more of a grimace than a smile and then throw the bottle into my bag, pop a piece of gum in my mouth and am out the door and down the narrow hallways of the PCAC, heading toward the back and the path that curves up toward the Library.
God damn…I’m on my way down, sliding toward breakdown and on my way up at the same time, some kind of clinging, desperate, frenzy happiness.
As I turn a corner, I’m suddenly startled in the hallway by a tall dark figure in a hooded sweatshirt, jeans and a baseball hat, leaning casually against the wall, hands in pockets. My heart starts to slam, red hot as I recognize him, even in the dim light, but I pretend that I don’t, passing him by with a tiny sideways glance, his eyes on mine.
“Hi,” I say, as I pass, turning my gaze straight ahead.
“Hi, sexy,” he says in a low voice, reaching out at the last moment to grab my fingers and pull me up against his hard chest. And then before I know what’s happening, he’s kissing me, his warm firm mouth pressed against mine, one arm curved around my neck, the other around my waist and I kiss him back, pushing him up against the wall, threading my fingers through his hair.
This is how we are together. He surprises me in the halls, other places on campus, waiting for me to get out of class so we can go back to his place and fool around. And I do the same, showing up at the library or the dining hall, pulling him away from whatever he’s working on. It’s irresistible, electric. We can’t seem to stop.
I’m pulling on his clothes now, sliding my hands up underneath his sweatshirt and the t-shirt underneath, feeling the surprising warmth of his skin, the hard planes. He’s got his warm hands up under my coat and shirt, finally finding bare skin, alive and throbbing. He’s leaning against the wall when he pulls my leg up, his thigh rubbing against me and I can’t stand it anymore. I need him, now. I need this in more ways than one. He threads his fingers through mine, pushing away from the wall, backing me into it with a thud, mouth still on mine, urgent and hot.
I finally break away and pull him down the hall, laughing and he follows. Then he’s pulling my hand again hard, stopping me dead, his arms around me, hands questing, mouth insistent for another kiss and I don’t even bother to try to stop him, but kiss him back, his mouth tasting of wintergreen. My heart is hammering when he puts his hands on either side of my face, pulling away for a moment to smile, eyes shining and then kissing me again, deliberately.
He smiles and pulls me down the hallway and now we’re running out the door and up the hill near Ham Smith, out of breath, finally stopping when we get to the front of the building, acting sedate and calm, stifling laughter, glancing around to se
e if there is anyone out and about. And there are other students here and there under street lamps, walking to Holloway and the MUB and to academic buildings and so now we’re laughing, hands clasped and walking fast, as fast as we can go without breaking into a full on run until finally we reach his place and are inside.
He kicks the door shut and pulls off his sweatshirt and t-shirt, his hands tugging on my coat and long sleeved tee. This is how it is. Hot, urgent, almost illicit feeling, a secret rendezvous. And I am happy. The happiest I have been in a long time. Wanted, smiling, able to finally live out all my fantasies with someone I feel safe with.
This happiness against the stark contrast of my misery is strange, hard to believe, almost unreal. I’m living two lives, one happy, fulfilled, beautiful even, the other on the verge of suicide. Dark and light. My life.
He’s kissing me now, pulling me into his room and we have sex in every position we can think of. Standing up, bent over his bed, cowgirl style, positions that have no name as far as we know, everything. And I can’t stop smiling or kissing him and he can’t keep his hands to himself and we’re just lost in each other. He is perfect and I keep thinking the words, soul mate. The person who makes me happiest in all the world, my new best friend.
February 20, 2005
I’m on an island all alone
Going to college is damn stressful. I’m trying to focus on writing a paper for my Earth History class in my parents’ office. I stare at the computer screen in front of me, the cursor blinking away on the blank page, willing the words to come to my fingertips. Nothing is happening. Things are not going well. I’m stressing myself out and getting worried that I’m doing badly in my classes. I can’t stop thinking that I’m a failure, in more ways than one, school, my personal life, panic, guys, everything that matters to me.
My phone on the desk next to me vibrates and it’s Hannah, wanting to know if I’d like to go to the mall with her and Kayla. I’m immediately nervous about the trip, but tell Hannah that I’d like to go, if just to get away from my paper for a few hours, plus I want to look at some clothes at the mall. I drive to campus, my nerves harassing and threatening me the entire way and find the girls waiting. I climb out of my car reluctantly because the first person I spot is Stacia. Really? Damn.
“Hey, Victoria,” Hannah says as I approach the group, my stomach suddenly clenching into a knotted fist. Hannah hadn’t said anything about Stacia being here. Shit…Kayla probably invited her to come with us. I groan inside. This cannot be happening to me. As soon as I walk over, I can see they’ve already been in conversation, clearly just waiting for me.
“I’ll drive,” says Stacia walking toward her brand new Honda Civic, her blonde ponytail bouncing, wearing a pleated skirt and sweater. Oh hell no.
“I’ll just drive myself,” I say under my breath to Hannah. I cannot ride with Stacia. I can’t. I can’t get in the car with these girls. It’s an impossibility.
“No, Victoria, you have to come with us!” says Stacia, somehow overhearing me from several feet away. “We can all fit in my car, there’s no point in taking another,” she argues, pouting.
“Well I have to go somewhere afterward and wanted to be closer to my next destination,” I lie, racking my brain to come up with any reason why I can’t ride with them. I hadn’t anticipated this happening and now I’m being forced to hurry up and lie to cover up my crazy.
“I can’t see how that can be true. Come on, we’ll all go together, it will be more fun that way,” Stacia argues back and I feel myself being propelled forward by invisible social hands that expect that I don’t have an insanity problem and that all “normal” people would of course ride in the same car if going to the same destination. I can’t really argue this. What can I say?
“Well my mom wanted me to pick something up from the grocery store on my way back,” I state, grasping at straws now, beginning to full on tremble. Stacia is getting the better of me. What can I do?
“Just get it later, silly. I have no idea why you’re being difficult. I swear I’m a good driver,” she says with a smile and Hannah and Kayla seem game to go, having walked over and are all standing outside the car. I’m the only one standing a few feet away, feeling the tug of normal people to do normal things.
“Ok, fine,” I say, giving in to pressure, out of excuses, nothing left to say. I cannot believe I’m doing this. I walk toward the car and as soon as my hand touches the handle, I can feel that this is a mistake. But there is no going back now. I pull open the heavy door, my muscles weak and quivering and sit down on the brand new seat. The car still smells new.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m shrieking inside as we drive out of the parking lot. My anxiety is spiking to a new level and I feel like roaring “stop the car, let me out!” but I know that if I do, it will seem fuckin weird and no one will understand why I’m freaking out.
Now that the panic sequence has started I’m not able to stop it. I start going through the paces, my mind reeling, my pulse racing with fear, my stomach roiling, nasty acid creeping up my esophagus. Sick. Sick. Crazy. Crazy. Here I am, trapped, I think, trying desperately to concentrate on the conversation going on around me. I feel trapped by social expectations, trapped because I know that these girls will not understand my problem. What if I want them to bring me back to my car later before the trip is over? They will never listen to me. I am Stacia’s prisoner. The bitch.
Minutes tick by slowly as I sit there, wishing that I wasn’t physically imprisoned in this car. There’s no way to get out, no way to stop the car without asking Stacia and I really really don’t want to do that. But the thought of being out of control of my own body is completely overwhelming, totally choking me. No one ever thinks this way, no one else would sit here and think about the fact that, physically, they were at someone else’s mercy. Here I am flying down the highway, locked inside a tin can, unable to get out without telling someone, unable to be sick without embarrassment, unable to control myself. I’m completely undone inside, completely insane and not one person will understand, not one person will know what’s going on with me.
I’m trying to hide it, I have to. I have no other choice, not unless I want them to know. Mental defects are not something that people understand or sympathize with. They are damning. God dammit, why did I put myself in this situation willingly? My stomach flip flops, gathering itself up, tight as a knot and being drawn tighter still by the moment. I’m going to be sick. I’m going to embarrass myself by being sick, my own body betraying my craziness, revealing my weakness. I can’t let it happen. I can’t lose it. I must not. The girls are chatting around me and I feel like I’m on an island all alone, shipwrecked inside my own mind, watching everyone else move farther and farther away. Pretty soon they will notice me out here by myself if I don’t say something soon.
But the more I think, the more I fight it, the sicker I feel. Hannah is already looking at me strangely because I’ve been sitting here quietly not really joining in on the conversation. She can tell something is wrong, but not what. I give her a tight smile, wringing my hands in my lap. The situation seems unreal, out of touch, yet physically throbbing, as my heart slams like the car door when I first got in, except it keeps happening, again and again. I am trapped! I can’t breathe! There is no air in this car. And I can feel the hot acid burning up my throat, almost ready to explode. I need to escape!
I try to join in on the conversation going on around me, laughing when they laugh, putting in a comment here and there where I’m able. For the most part no one seems to know that I’m fighting an internal battle. I am literally sitting here screaming inside my own mind. I am dying. I am freaking out. I am losing it. And not one of them knows!
My stomach churns, abs tight, and I feel as though I need a restroom immediately. I’m not strong enough to endure it. I’m weak. I know that soon we’ll be passing a McDonalds and I want to ask Stacia to pull the car over so that I can use the bathroom. I watch out the window as we approach
the fast food joint and just as we’re almost there I finally speak up.
“Stacia, do you think you could pull over at that McDonalds so I can use the bathroom?” I ask, cringing inside, wishing I didn’t have to ask.
“Why?” she asks with a slight sneer. Not enough for the others to pick up, but just enough to let me know that my suspicion that Stacia doesn’t like me is definitely right on. Her dislike makes things much worse and my stomach clenches again, a wave of heat rushing over me, setting me on fire.
“I’m not feeling well,” I say, embarrassed that she’s making me spell it out. Damn her!!
“Arggg!” she says, making a face in the rearview mirror. “We’re almost there, Victoria, God, really?” she asks, looking at me again her eyebrows drawn up in an annoyed question mark, but when she sees the expression on my pale white face she finally says, “Fine, I can pull over,” clearly unhappy that I’ve asked something irritating.
Once we pull over, I immediately jump out, happy to be out of the car for the moment, dreading the moment when I have to get back in. I rush to the restroom, feeling like I have the flu. Inside the dirty bathroom stall, I can’t stop shaking. I don’t want to go back outside and get into the car. Already I’m sure they are wondering what the hell is wrong with me. Already they are probably judging me and thinking I’m disgusting and strange.
I do what I have to do in the bathroom as quickly as possible, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. My stomach is still churning and my hands are shaking like a drug addict who needs a fix and boy do I need a fix…I need something. Shit the truth is, I even look like an addict. Eyes blood shot, trembling, sweating, face dead white. I might as well be on PCP or strung out on meth, the way I look. Instead I’m strung out on anxiety, hyped up on crazy Victoria. I stand at the mirror in the bathroom and stare at my face, knowing that the girls are waiting, knowing that I should hurry up, my eyes watering as I hold back unwanted tears.
Angst Page 21
