Grazed Knees

They warn you not to go to bed angry,

but I've found it usually works:

time and sleep and silence cure my ailments.

But this morning I opened my eyes

with my fists still clenched and my heart still compressed

and ugly inside things

clawing at my rib cage

and climbing my throat,

trying to push themselves out of my mouth and,

finding my jaw unwilling to loosen,

they settle for second best and burn my tongue.

I sit boiling, rigid, and hell-bent on containment,

and finally see why you tell me

anger is a wasted emotion.

A Good Man is Hard to Find

      Friday during the day I was facebook chatted by a man almost a decade older than I, whom I have met a handful of times, who has always been overtly interested in me. If you've read carefully (which I'm certain you all have, right?) you will know that I am instantly put off by that. I hate it when people awkwardly stare and smile at me for extended periods of time. It actually makes me mildly disgusted. I'm sure there's something Freudian in there, but I'm not particularly interested in the psychological underpinnings of my sexual interests. I digress.
   So, he's facebook chatted me before, and asked for my number a month or so, which I begrudgingly gave him. I don't really know how to refuse my phone number to someone who isn't a stranger. I just feel like it's rude. Anyway.
   Our facebook convo went something like this:

Man Pushing 30: So, any plans for the weekend?

Self: Drinking. To excess.

Inappropriately Older Man: Want a partner?

Self does not reply.

Elderly Guy Who Lacks Subtlety: So, can I tell you something? It will sound weird in this context, but life's about taking risks, right?

Self: Uhh... maybe. I guess.

Senior Citizen: I think ur really cute :)

Self: Oh, thank you. That's nice of you to say. 

Social Security Recipient: So uh, can I ask you the same question?

Self: I'm not sure what you mean.

Retiree: What do you think of me?

Self: Oh, I think you seem very nice. But I'm... off the market, so to speak.

   He texted me that night asking where I was, and I told him I hadn't left yet but intended to go to a bar in our town. He replied that he was at a different bar, but would meet me there. I groaned in misery.

   Esther unsympathetically insisted that I agree to meet up with him, pointing out that he would pay my tab at the end of the night. I rolled my eyes and muttered something about not needing or wanting a man to do that.

  When he arrived, he proceeded to awkwardly smile nonstop at me and never break his gaze. He basically cornered me and rambled his life away for a couple of hours, told me he was going to marry me, repeatedly asked me "how crazy was it, what I said to you today?" and otherwise just generally creeped me out. I made excuses to leave every 10 minutes or so. 

   During these breaks from torture, I would take Esther into the bathroom and explain how much I hated what was happening. She drunkenly (and rather condescendingly, I might add) informed me that I needed to "deal with it" because "he was buying me drinks" and did I know how many guys stare at her and she deals with it? She insisted that I "learn to go with it." She then proceeded to bring up a few unfortunate looking fellows in the past month she has spent the night talking to at the bar in exchange for drinks. Frustrated, I insisted that I wasn't interested in leading men on in exchange for access to their wallets, and that I wanted to get the hell out of the situation immediately.

   "He's not that bad," she insisted. "He's not ugly."

   "I don't hook up with people because they're not ugly," I interjected, hotly.

   I realized pretty quickly that these trips to the bathroom were doing little, aside from enraging me further, and miserably stepped back into the bar where he would descend on me like a piranha.

   He gradually moved in closer and closer and awkwardly began rubbing my back and legs. I moved as far away as I could, but it was pretty crowded in there.

   I eventually found Esther outside and incomprehensible. Seizing the excuse, I told him we had to leave immediately and made an unceremonious departure.

   After we left, the night improved substantially. We went back to the apartment of two guy friends where she got something to eat and we all hung around laughing for a few hours, until Bobby picked me up and took me home.

   It was the first time we'd seen each other in weeks and, thrilled, I spent the car ride home basically just grabbing and squeezing him and shrieking about how happy I was to see him. He just laughed the whole time.

   When we pulled into my driveway, I took my seatbelt on, leaned over and grabbed him in an embrace.

   "I MISSED YOU I MISSED YOU I MISSSS YOUUUU!" I squealed.

   "You're squeezing my head," he replied.

   "I KNOW! I AM! I love you! Ahhhhhhh I love you so much I can't stand it! Oh, shit, I'm squeezing your head!" I released him, and he leaned back in, grinning.

   "No, no, I like it."

Remember me as a Time of Day

   Warning: I'm a little bit out of my mind right now. I have too many thoughts to fall asleep, so I'll spill them here.

   I heard from Kid A tonight, for the first time in a long time. He's doing well and is surprisingly one of the few people supportive of my plans for relocation. "It's where you belong," he tells me. "Portland. Not here." 
   I smile a little, to myself, thinking how right his statement is, but how wrong his reasons are. He thinks I'm going to go live among the hipsters and assimilate. He has no idea who I am. I've never assimilated in my life and I have no intention to start- least of all to fit in with a bunch of pretentious morons who think they're living above conformity by conforming to the standards of their selective little subculture instead of the "mainstream," whatever the hell that means. 
   The conversation goes smoothly, although I spend a good portion of it nauseated. I spent a good number of years pretty nauseated actually, mostly due to nerves and self-doubt. With every re-emergence in my life he brings back with him a crippling feeling of inadequacy. The instant he speaks, I literally feel paralyzed. It's so silly and tragic. (Contradictions are my thing here, people! We know this!)
    He and I have a pretty well-developed rapport, and we ease back into it without much difficulty. It stuns me how subversively manipulative he is, but more so how it still affects me. Not to any measurable degree, especially compared to how it once did, but I do still feel a nagging need to measure up to his expectations. He keeps them unrealistically high. As soon as I meet them, he skyrockets them all over again. For someone who found Catch-22 (my favorite book) "annoying," he certainly pays tribute to Colonel Cathcart, eh? 
   He twists my words. It makes me uncomfortable because words have always been so mine. The ones I say, anyway. I maintain such meticulous diction that it throws me off when he seemingly transforms my sentences right before my eyes.
   "I haven't dedicated myself to a concept in years," I inform him, explaining my distaste for self-definition through music or books, knowing he'll compartmentalize me anyway.
   "Do you think that's a good thing," he asks, "not to devote yourself to anything?" 
   He flusters me. Fortunately, I have better balance now. He kept such strict control of me easily for two reasons: I had inordinately low self-esteem, and I was hopelessly in love with him. Now that he has lost both of these, he focuses our interactions on gaining one or both of them back. It almost works in the beginning because time has made me ill-equipped to handle his underhandedly condescending remarks, but I distance myself from the immediacy of the situation and remember how little I am concerned with his approval. Then I feel my spine grow back. 
   "Are you still writing?" he asks.
   "Yes," I reply. "I'm a shittier person when I don't write, so I keep doing it." 
   I briefly consider linking him here but, knowing he would instantly identify himself, I decide against it.
    "Good," he answers. "You were always one of my favorite writers."
   When he asks me what I write about, I draw a blank.
   "Myself, mostly. That's my primary interest." 
   He admits that he has started writing, but hasn't developed his own voice yet. We discuss writing as a tool for self-discovery and he asks me if I've made any progress.
   "Discovering myself?" I ask.
   "Yes."
   "I'm certainly more familiar with myself than I was at sixteen, though I'm a lot less sure about it."
   "Do you think you were happier at sixteen, or now?" The question itself makes me laugh.
   "Now, without a doubt." I affirm. "I'm pretty sure no matter what happens in my life, I will always be happier than I was at sixteen." 
   "I'm not sure if it was the chemicals in the water or what, but those were miserable years," he says.
    "I think it was the age," I volunteer.
   "And the music and the books and the idols," he adds. He certainly has a point; Rage Against The Machine, George Orwell and Kurt Cobain aren't exactly pick-me-ups.
   He continues on to explain that the problems we suffered could have been "solved easily" by a "quick cognitive change." I shudder at the oversimplification, and disagree.
   "I think high school was mostly waiting for the haze to dissipate. And that mostly just required time. I think I did the best I could with the resources available to me at the time."
   I laugh and admit to having had "more angst than everyone else at our entire high school combined."
  "That's why I enjoyed our conversations so much," he says. "You were a breath of fresh air." He laughs and adds, "though more like a tornado." 
   Torn between smiling and wincing, I just agree. "It was a lot more hyperventilating than breathing, I think."
   He suddenly adopts a different tone. Becoming more somber, he admits "Looking back, I see myself as such an egocentric prick." 
   Finding his summation so astute, I burst out laughing. "We all had personas," I reassure him. "What else could we do? We weren't ready to be real people yet." 
   "I had a hell of a time with that persona," he says, absent of the hint of remorse he had shown seconds before. "So it all worked out." 
   I sigh quietly, disappointed with myself for having redeemed him. That's a habit I haven't shaken, I guess; forgiving his sins. I've managed to overcome the need to constantly apologize to him for them, but I haven't figured out how not to absolve him of them yet. 
   When we part ways, I am still reinforcing the distance I've been maintaining throughout. When he breaks through it, I'm floored.
   "I hope things work out well for you," he says, and I can actually feel his sincerity. This may be the first time I've ever felt certain he was sincere about anything. 
   "You too," I say.
   "And I would like to apologize for all the stupid shit I did in my youth."
   My heart falls to the floor. I've never expected or imagined he would make any admission. It's so surprising, yet so quintessentially him; bare and minimal, lacking real substance, yet pregnant with undertones, and heavy enough to break your back.
   "Like what?" I want to ask. "That time you brought all your friends over to my house and walked right past me without so much as a hello and ruined my best friend's birthday cake, then left it ouside on my sidewalk for me to clean up? Are you sorry for that? What about when you started dating someone else, but lied to me about it for eight months while you spent hours telling me how much you needed me, and loved me? Or how you pretended I didn't exist any time your friends were around? What about when you invited me to meet you out, and then sat with your girlfriend, pretending not to notice I was there? Or any of the countless times you invited me places and then whispered to your friends behind my back 'How did she even know we were going to be here? Why did she just show up?' Or the hours you spent convincing me to show you poetry I had written, only to later read it aloud to your friends, and your girlfriend? Or any of the innumerable nights you promised to show up, but never did? Are you sorry for that?" 


   "Thank you," I say instead. "I appreciate that. I made my share of mistakes though, and I'm sorry for those, too." (Mine were just fewer, and less malicious, I add, silently.)
   "Take care, Linnea," he says. I realize this is one of only four times I have ever heard him say my name. The first three, scattered throughout the years, hit me like lightning bolts. This one settles in, softly. It lacks the electrocution.

   I'm grateful for his apology, those sixteen words I didn't see coming. I understand why he kept it so brief. They were painful years. Listing his transgressions would be time-consuming, and heartbreaking.
   We conduct our daily lives with our sins suppressed, nearly forgotten. Carrying the weight of them would be unbearable, and reminding ourselves of them could feel like reliving them. And I don't want to relive his sins any more than I want to relive my own. They were unendurable. They belong in the past, silent and hidden.
   And, although other adjectives have been offered- cruel, evil, sadistic... I could go on- "stupid shit" pretty well encompasses it.
   I feel like I've been released from hostility and bitterness I've felt at the mere mention of his name for so long. I still feel them pouring out of me, leaving me lighter and calmer. It's lovely.

   And I wonder what will be left when the bad things are drained. I'm not sure if there's any love left there. I know there isn't much, if it's there. I'm just wondering if I'll ever taste any sweetness in my mouth, when I remember our good days. 
   I'm not sure, but I'm open to the possibility.

   I'm just relieved I can finally let go.

It Takes a Lot to Laugh, it Takes a Train to Cry

   Sometimes I lose my shit. I don't mean I misplace my possessions (though I do an awful lot of that too.) I mean I lose. my. shit. I freak the fuck out, complete with full-scale stuttering and hyperventilating.
   I did this today. One minute I'm grouchy that I was woken up mid-nap to go to belly dancing, (I have a Shakira complex), the next I'm sitting alone in a parking lot, mumbling incomprehensibly through sobs to my Mother on the telephone, who is very sympathetically telling me she hasn't caught a single word.  "Nevermind!" I exclaim, frustrated, hanging up. As a car pulls up next to me, I curse the extended daylight hours I look forward to all winter long for making me vulnerable to this stranger. I'm not the type of girl who cries in public. I reach in the back seat and pretend to search through a bag, trying to look as if I'm doing anything other than having a complete mental and emotional breakdown by myself in the parking lot of a dance studio.
   Thought process: Exhausted, annoyed, apprehensive. I feel stress building. There's no other thing I can easily focus on, I'm too present in this experience. I need to remove myself mentally from this. As I swallow my grievances, I suddenly see the inside of my head.
   I'm watching every bad feeling, every negative thought I have, You don't seem to feel that my time is of any value whatsoever, falling down my throat, You will never be the man I want you to be, and softening inside me. I love you so much sometimes, and other times I think we're both selfish assholes who return to each other out of boredom and convenience. I literally see myself internalizing my fears and frustrations. But if you don't love me at all, what the hell are you doing here? And if I don't love you, why have I thought about you every day for the past four years? Even when we're apart, you're such a part of my life, of my head, of my waking up and going to sleep every day. "Do you think about me when we're not together?" I asked, fearfully, one night when I felt our relationship was secure enough to sustain honest discourse. "Sometimes," you said reassuringly, insistingly, as if that was supposed to please me. "Sometimes isn't enough," I wanted to protest. Of course I didn't. I just fought my facial features into remaining expressionless until the instinct to frown was suppressed.  I watch my bold, sharp words, vivid red with anger and passion and honesty smoothly dull at the edges, turn blue and then dissolve as I stifle them with detachment. This is my coping mechanism with bad things; I withdraw, retreat into myself and smother them until they're gone.
   Plus, today after reading an account of a toddler's mental scheme of a cat: small, warm, furry, soft, I became obsessed with adopting a kitten. (Admittedly, this is probably a pacifying replacement for my completely irrational desire to fast forward the next five years of my life, get married and have six babies.) But then my parents, who I am genuinely enjoying living with, dismissed the idea. I tried to accept the decision like the rational person I am, but hours later when my mother made a joke about it, I could barely control my absurdly emotional reaction. I know I never had him, but I feel like you're taking him away from me, I wanted to plead. I imagined him and it was like he was real, and I wanted to feed him a saucer of milk and introduce him to my niece and play in the yard with him. But I swallowed the plea, sent it inside to soften, turn cold and disappear with all the other things I want to say but never do.
   So, today was trying, from start to finish. But it's over and tomorrow, as always, is full of possibilities.

Where I End and You Begin (The Sky is Falling In)

     Things have been different for a while now.  Six weeks perhaps?  Shorter?  Longer?  Who's to say?
     An eye roll here, a muttered aside there, a casual, caustic response.  And it's me, I know it's me.  Does it all trace back to a single afternoon?
     "It's totally your fault and I don't feel sorry for you."  "Did I ask you to?"
     And it grew, slowly, escalating quietly while we ignored it, wishing it would take care of itself.  Knowing it wouldn't, but wanting it to anyway.  Its manifestations were fewer and farther between in the beginning.   "You already asked me that."  The animosity was surprising, hurtful.  We buried it rapidly, only allowing a few tense syllables before the gentleness returned.  In its place was pleading, mostly from him, and from me ice. "I'm not saying that just to piss you off, it's true."  His attempts at sweetening the disagreements are rejected, heartlessly.   "Don't touch me."  Eventually the effort is wearing, and he gives in to my antics. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."  "It's not my personal opinion, it's common etiquette. It's not like I make this shit up."   Weariness turns to frustration as boredom and annoyance collide and spiral into bitterness. "After this drink, I'm leaving."  My apologies flood hurriedly, overwhelmingly, effectively.  Promises of love are issued and reissued softly, soothingly, as dissonance is assuaged into its more pleasant opposite.  And then it starts over.
     Apathy replaces heartbreak quickly, before I can even notice that it's painful.  This is my usual defense, the easiest and most effective.  And most destructive.  Neglect comes easily. Phone calls are ignored and not returned.  Texts left unopened, acknowledged only with a sigh.  Read days later and deleted as I roll my eyes.  Who are we and what happened to us?  It's mostly me, I know.  It's always mostly me.  I'm so uneasy in the face of conflict.  I roll my eyes and retreat, mumbling away my passive aggression.
     Until his masculinity builds, and all he has left to contend with is the overwhelming inadequacy of my half-sincere apologies for my constant absence.
     He begins hesitantly, nervously.
   "Don't say I didn't try!"  
   My reactions are so predictable, though maybe only to myself.
   "I never said that."
   He fumbles.
   "I mean in the future."
   I've stifled compassion.
   "Why would I say that?"  
   "Never mind."  
   Safe.  Conflict free.  Unscathed?  Alone.  Which is the only way to be safe.
     I've underestimated him.  I have that tendency.  With most everyone.  He regroups and confronts me, unwavering.  I barely acknowledge a syllable.  My self-control is rigid, inflexible.  I lock myself into  indifference and monosyllables.  This is how I ruin everything.  I know it's coming.  His frustration intensifies, I can feel him seethe in every word.  I actively disregard this.
   "I think you're taking this a little personally."  
  "I'm not.  We had all these plans..."  
   I focus on emptiness.
  "I really don't know what to say."
     Struggling to get comfortable, I twist and turn.  I breathe deeply, concentrating on the harsh intake of air and its controlled release.  Control.  Control.  Control.  I can't sleep.  Nothing ever keeps me awake.  I can sleep off anything.  Why am I still awake?  I lie, listening to the slow, automatic beating of my cold,  empty heart.  "I'm sorry," I almost whisper to the darkness, but I'm not willing to give that up yet.
     Am I about to lose the best friend I've ever had?