Thursday, January 21, 2010

Chapter 14

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I have learned that with creatures one loves, suffering is not the only thing for which one may pity them. A rabbit who does not know when a gift had made him safer is poorer than a slug, even though he make think otherwise himself.


“So how are you?” I wish I understood what was in your eyes.
“Mediocre.”
“What about you is mediocre?”
“Everything.”
“Be specific.”
“Apartment, occupational opportunities, artistic skill, academics, physical appearance…”
“That’s a good list. Keep going.”
“There isn’t much else to me.” Ankles. Two inches of conspicuous skin anchor my gaze. They’re skinny ankles, not at all indicative of the strength of your legs that are hidden behind the loose fabric of your pants. I keep my eyes fixed on that skin, still pallid from inexposure to sunlight over the winter months, and pretend I am staring at the floor.
“Maybe the only thing that is truly mediocre about you is your declaration that it is so. If you claim to be otherwise then you will have overcome mediocrity.”
“That’s not true. If it was, then I wouldn’t be unhappy. Besides, I have been proud before and I was just as depressed.”
“When?”
“When what?” You ask me a question and it takes considerable effort to disentangle my thoughts from the dark hairs that lay curled and flattened against your leg. Realising my downward gaze might be misinterpreted as melancholy, I bring my eyes up, hoping to find some relief in the clothes that conceal your body, and smile so that you might take some pleasure in my company instead of being wearied by my unhappiness.
“When were you proud?”
“A couple of weeks ago. And a couple of weeks before that.” I wait until your gaze is diverted to recross my legs as my skirt has pulled up a couple of inches and though my desire must have been obvious, this was still an office and I saw no need to behave indecently. If the mind is going to wander, the body should be corralled. Still, in that brief instant where my legs were parted, I could smell the evidence of my thoughts and hoped the scent wouldn’t traverse the three feet of air to your olfactory senses to elucidate my frisson.
“I’ve been seeing you for a while now and I don’t recall any peremptory declarations.”
“Well last week you said you were incapable of recognizing changes in my emotional state, so your opinion isn’t really valid.”
“You defend your depression as if you are playing a chess game with me. In a chess game as opposed to, say, poker where players wear visors and sunglasses to hide their thoughts, it’s more difficult to ascertain your opponent’s next move through anatomical observation. You’re a very good chess player.”
“That’s not true. Reading body language in extremely important in chess…”
“I am not all that familiar with the game,” you say before I have finished my sentence.
“…I’ve never really played chess,” the discovery of a simultaneous commonality between us redirects my attention to the analysis of whether the similarity is significant, “but body language is important in the game. It’s a huge part of the game because, unlike in poker, you are vulnerable to intense scrutiny by your opponent during the intervals between moves. Body language is half the strategy – tension, eye movement across the board – you have to know what your opponent is thinking.”
“I wonder if you defend these negative aspects of yourself because you stubbornly want to prove me wrong.”
“I don’t have to prove anything. Just because you happen to be wrong doesn’t mean I am stubbornly refusing happiness.” I’m not trying to argue with you, I’m trying to educate you.
“Then if happiness came your way, you would accept it?”
“Happiness doesn’t want anything to do with me.”
“That’s what the depression tells you.” Yet, we argue. I make sure my sigh is extra audible, since you claim to not be able to pick up on subtleties.
“There hasn’t been any indication that anything good would want anything to do with me.”
“Depression doesn’t only affect what you believe. It affects all of the senses, so that if something good were to pass you by, its form would be distorted. This makes it more difficult for people struggling with depression to recognise the good all around them because they trust their senses.”
“Fine. Happiness exists. What difference does it make? According to you, even if I were surrounded by glowing, fuzzy warmness, I wouldn’t be able to recognise it. It’s the same as if it didn’t exist at all.”
“Depression is only a mask, sort of a pair of goggles that affect your vision. But the goggles can be taken off so that you are able to view life without all of the good being filtered out.”
“So normal people see life like bees see flowers?”
“You are normal. But you’ve got an accessory instrument that is causing you harm. The hardest part is taking the goggles off, but once you do your eyes will adjust to the new light. And once that happens you can begin to work on more healthful coping mechanisms.”
“I don’t know any other coping mechanisms.”
“That’s why I’m here.” Sounds reasonable enough. Except, what if you’re not there when I need you? And you won’t be there. Because you’re here.
“It’ll never work.”
“It won’t if you don’t try.” It won’t if I do try. Best to stick with what I know. There’s no point in setting myself up for failure and disappointment. “But we will have to talk about this more next time. Have a good week.”
“Thanks.”


………


I could hear voices flowing down from the suite upstairs through the vents in the ceiling, voices singing happy birthday. Not singing to me. My birthday had come and gone. There was no party, no singing. There was no cake. But there were delicate pastries I bought for myself because as much as I told myself I didn’t care that I was alone, as much as I told myself the loneliness would be easier to bear if I pretended there was nothing to celebrate on a day when a person should be surrounded by people who love them, I knew, birthday or no birthday, I was alone. The pastries were supposed to compensate for that. It didn’t work.

The joy in their voices sounded forced, contrived. But I wanted to be a part of it nonetheless, even just to pretend to not be so alone. Tomorrow, maybe, there will be leftovers of birthday cake. Not invited to the party, not allowed to mingle with the normals, but the man upstairs will take pity on me and bring me a piece of cake. Stale and leftover. An image of myself in flower and eggs and icing.

“You’re not alone,” Laura said as she lied down next to me on the bed and took my right hand in her left, our fingers interlocking.
“You’re not alone,” Kayla said quietly into my left ear before kissing my temple and taking my other hand. The three of us were lying in the bed on our backs, staring at the yellow glowing stars on the ceiling.

I had always thought I created Laura and Kayla to protect me, to care for me, to take the edge off the pain and lighten the shadows in my head. But feeling their fingers, delicate and soft and fragile, locked into mine, I felt them holding on to me and I realised they needed me as much, if not more, than I needed them. The three of us somehow thrown into this life together, trying to stand against the darkness, and each one of us terrified it wouldn’t be enough.

………


Mornings can be peaceful. Sometimes. For a short while. If I wake early enough, I can be up before the noise and the voices living inside my head have time to develop. They are always there, of course, but more dormant in the early hours of the morning.

It never lasts long, this alone time, because the voices always know when I’ve woken, and begin to do so themselves. They stir, slowly at first, rolling over in the moments before their awakening. And then they’re there, suddenly and in full form, and I can never recall the exact moment when they entirely filled my mind.

The not remembering is the worst part, especially when I’m driving. I know I must be conscious of every moment otherwise I would have died a hundred times over. I think I notice most when driving because I am forced to pay attention to the details of the road, particularly in relation to what just happened a few seconds back, which car was behind me, how fast was it approaching, and so on. But then there are these dangerous seconds, where I can’t remember how I got to where I am or what just happened. This is when I am most at risk of crashing because the not remembering is a split second unconsciousness which, at 110km/hr around a corner can be disastrous.

Mornings can be peaceful, that was my point. This was one of those mornings. The man upstairs did bring me leftover cake. I tried to pretend to myself that I was insulted by this act of pity, but the truth was I was grateful. I was hungry.

As I sat down to write this, about to tell you that I would try harder if you could assure me there was some possibility of a future, I started crying. I want you to help me, but I don’t know, despite my best efforts, if I will be able to hold up my end of the bargain. I don’t plan on stopping my haematic indulgence this week, at any rate, and my razor does wonders. Hardly any pain at all and that can be redirected. I just wish there was more area on my body I could cut on without being obvious.

Sorry. It’s difficult to be happy in the realm of you without also being torn to pieces. I wonder what will happen to me when you’re gone. You’ll move or retire or die or tell me to leave. The best I can hope for now is that I will die before that happens. Please don’t tell me you expect me to leave soon. I don’t want the process of separation to start just yet.

I would like to see one of your lectures. Not a new thought. I’m not asking to, I know I’m not allowed, but I am curious and I take pleasure in your positive attributes. But so do many people, so I guess it doesn’t mean much coming from me. I was going somewhere with this. The things you say I should do, I might be more willing, able, to accomplish them if I had more time. I’m too tired most days to pursue any healthy activity.

I don’t want this to sound like a negotiation. I’m not trying to barter or give ultimatums. I’m crying again. I don’t think it will work. I don’t think any approach will readjust my perceptions. But you do. So if you still want to help me, I promise (I NEVER make promises) to do my best to challenge my stubborn beliefs and undertake a few of your suggestions.

However, as it stands, my life is dismal at best. I refuse to engage in it because I refuse to suffer it. Maybe I have a new life starting. I would like this to be a good thing and I want to get better before it starts or I fear I will get lost in the routine and commotion of daily life and never recover. So if you will assist me, I will use my time constructively to pursue all sorts of joyous activities like learning to accept forgiveness instead of what I was going to do (wallow in misery and hope I die).

I’m glad you won’t ever read this. I wanted to believe it. I think I did when I first starting writing, but already, only minutes into my promise to be a better person, I know I’m lying.

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