Wake up
She stares at the stapler. I hate that stapler, she thinks.
In that one moment she is focused. Her emotions and her thoughts, her heart and her mind, they flow together, and it’s all like that snapshot of reality that she reads about in the books. The books that cram together on the shelves of her apartment, books she has long since lost faith in. She still likes to read, likes to be carried away from the screamingpulsingfuckingache in her mind, but it’s not the same. She thinks she wishes it were. Because now, when she puts the book down, it doesn’t stay with her.
It’s such a pity, really (she thinks), that she had one of those rare moments wasted on a stapler. She can imagine the conversation now:
“So, what mattered to you today, then?” (The shrink in her mind)
“A stapler. I was passionate about a stapler. John from downstairs asked me out, but I just got this feeling of having to make a very great something out of nothing, so I said no. ” (Her in her mind)
When she woke up this morning her cat was standing on her chest, giving her that look of pure loathing only a cat can pull off. And no, she only has ONE, thank you very much. That myth annoys her sense of logic, because really – who would surround herself with animals that might need you even less than the people you are disappointed in? Well, she remembers thinking that if looks could kill and they had an army of cats in the war, they wouldn’t have survived. Her mind faltered and she was back, for just a second, before she opened her mouth and cried out – frightening the cat – and the alarm went off in a cacophony of noise.
With a slap of her hand she flings the stapler into the wastebasket next to her desk. What was it the line said?
If all else fails, blame it on me.
Huh. In retrospect, she realizes you probably shouldn’t say that to someone who’s in love with you. It might make them stop.
***
They never knew how many nights she cried herself to sleep. These they were:
She was filled with so much rage; so much that it sometimes scared her. It scared her because it didn’t feel justified, because if she told someone (either one of them) they wouldn’t be able to understand the signs she was pointing to. Rage needs reality, not abstract concepts. She needed to be able to say: look, look at this, he raped me, can you see? Or; my husband beats me up, or, he moved one of his hands and it touched me. A strange person from the other side of the world came up to me and took liberties I had never granted them.
She didn’t have any of that. All she had was rage.
All she had was arbitrary events, shadow lands and a fucked up mind. She had a memory of a black hole, which she desperately tried to avoid. It sucked her in, turned off all the lights in her mind and played a scene of humiliation on repeat. She had laughter ringing in her ears. Fantasies crowded her mind; too much, too little, she had to cut them off and push them back. She had two best friends who loved each other and her, but who lacked the understanding to see why she couldn’t take that last step with them. Towards forgiveness.
She had another memory of an enemy calling her a bad name. A memory of never telling anyone exactly how that made her feel. Of a struggle against worthlessness and righteousness at the same time. No, it’s not about the person. It’s about the ideology behind the person.
Do you get it now?
You don’t move on, you just let it move you along.
So many times in a life with only a feeling. For the first time, she knew what it felt like to be fucked; it hurt more than she’d thought.
Every time you close your eyes
Lies, lies!
Every time you close your eyes
Lies, lies!
Every time you close your eyes
Every time you close your eyes
Every time you close your eyes
Every time you close your eyes