Let’s see if you can make them happy ones, John had said, as if it were that simple. I was angry with him for that. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t tried. I’d spent the better part of my twenties modeling myself after my old college roommate, one of the happiest people I’d ever met, but it hadn’t worked. In spite of my best efforts, I’d never been able to banish the darkness that lurked at the edges of my vision, waiting for the chance to pull me under.
My roommate’s name was Tiffany, a fitting name for such a lighthearted young woman. Prior to meeting her, I’d recognized I wasn’t a bubbly sort of girl. I wasn’t the type of girl who whispered and giggled over boys or pinup posters. I was a serious child and an even more serious adult.
After meeting Tiffany, I understood that it was more than seriousness that plagued me; there was a darkness within me that I couldn’t define. It’s difficult to recount accurately the moments in time that shape our futures. We don’t necessarily know that the nuances of a certain moment can influence us forever, but that’s how it was with Tiffany. She influences me to this day; I continue to envy her lightness.
Billy May was fifty years old when I enrolled at Marshall. Until that time, she had never visited Huntington. I know that sounds crazy now, but I’d be willing to bet there are still old-timers up in those mountains who have never set foot in a city. In some places, the world moves on. In some, it simply doesn’t. Is that a good thing, or a bad thing? I don’t know. I only know that it’s true.
The day I moved in I was a bundle of nerves. I was a hillbilly from a town of less than two-hundred. I was book-smart, but I didn’t know anything about the world. Upon reflection, I suppose that isn’t entirely true. In some ways, I knew more than anyone about the world. After all, how many just-turned-thirteen year olds know what it is to lose a baby, particularly one sired by one’s stepfather? I was wise, and yet I wasn’t.
We didn’t own a car; everything we’d needed was within walking distance. The day I moved into the dorm, Raymond O’Brien drove us in his rattling blue Ford pickup truck. More than once I doubted we’d make it there before the tired old truck called it quits, but we did, backfiring and sputtering our way towards the school in spite of the plumes of oily exhaust trailing behind us.
We were awed by the sights and sounds around us, Billy May and I, but not Raymond. He’d been to Marshall several times with his daughter Isabelle, helping her just as he was helping me. Most recently, he and June had visited Marshall to pack up Isabelle’s things and haul them home for the last time. She had dropped out the semester before, disappearing alongside a history major with an insatiable appetite for weed. By the time I entered Marshall that fall of 1981, Isabelle and her history major had headed to New York City to break into modeling. At least this is what she told her heartbroken parents, and it may have been true at that time.
Isabelle was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen, a stereotype of the sexy redhead, with brilliant red hair and porcelain skin, a tiny waist and endless legs. Boys from miles around had always come courting Isabelle. Maybe it was because of that, or maybe it was because she was the youngest of Raymond and June’s children; whatever the reason, she was spoiled rotten and selfish to the core, as Billy May would have said.
Since she’d been old enough to date, with poor Raymond shooing away the endless line of boys lurking at the front door, Isabelle had made it known to anyone who’d listen that one day she’d leave West Virginia, and her family, without looking back. I don’t think Raymond took her seriously back then, chalking it up to adolescent angst, but Isabelle had been quite serious, as we were all to learn later. I’m sure Robby knew that better than anyone.
It must have been difficult for Raymond to drive Billy May and me to Marshall that sunny fall morning, but if it was, he didn’t show it. He busied himself carrying my boxes in, imparting advice, sharing any helpful information with me he could. If you work in the cafeteria, you can get discounted meals. You don’t need to be going hungry. Isabelle said your resident advisor is the one you can take any concerns to. She’s at the end of the hall. He even toured us around campus, pointing out the buildings with which he was familiar. I made mental notes as we walked, grateful for the information.
When I was safely settled in my room, busily decorating with what little I’d brought from home, he left Billy May alone with me for our goodbyes. Billy May was not a crier, but her eyes were moist that day. We didn’t say much; there wasn’t much we hadn’t already said, but when she hugged me she held on longer and tighter than usual before patting my cheek and letting herself quietly out the door.
It was right after Billy May left that I first met Tiffany. I admired her at first sight; everyone did. It was impossible not to admire Tiffany. Unpretentious, charmingly real, Tiffany had a way of taking over a room.
Just as I was tacking my last poster to the wall, cursing at the cheap tacks that kept impaling my thumbs, she came bursting through the door, talking a mile a minute. “Oh there you are! I wondered when you’d show up. I hope you don’t mind I took the bed by the window. Look at that adorable quilt! You have such cute things.” She wrestled with a box full of paraphernalia, dragging it through the door and across the room as she spoke. I left the job of fluffing my pillows to help her maneuver the box to her side of the room.
“I’m Tiffany,” she continued with barely a pause. “What’s your name?”
“Jessie,” I managed to interject, taking in her mussed blonde curls and Polo shirt before she was off again, breathless from fighting with the huge carton.
“I got in this morning. My mom finally left after taking me out for lunch. Thank goodness! I didn’t think she’d ever leave. We’re going to have so much fun this year, Jessie! Are you as excited as I am?”
I was excited, probably even as excited as Tiffany. Her exuberance caused me to wonder why I was so reluctant to show it. “I am,” I said, and I truly meant it.
We were opposites in many ways. Tiffany was petite and blonde; I was tall and dark. She was chatty and vivacious; I was quiet and reserved. She loved meeting new people and making friends; I was uncomfortable in crowds. It could have been disastrous, two young girls with such opposite personalities rooming together, but it wasn’t.
We were close during those years, and I’m sure we still would be, if it weren’t for me. Nowadays, we send Christmas cards and wish each other happy birthday on Facebook, but that’s the extent of our relationship. I feel guilty about that; I really do. It’s just that eternal optimism can be hard to swallow after a while, especially as one gets older and more jaded. Especially if that one is me. But back then I loved her. I suppose I still would, but being around her reminds me too much of how much I don’t love myself.
“You’re so grown up,” she would say. “I wish I could be more like you. People respect you, but no one takes me seriously.” And, “You’re so together. You know exactly what you want. I’m a mess; I can’t make up my mind from one day to the next.”
I found it hard to believe Tiffany would want to be anything like me. I, on the other hand, didn’t just want to be like her in those days; I wanted to be her. If I could have remade myself into anyone, Tiffany would have been it.
I watched her sometimes, the way she interacted with people. Tiffany brought energy into a room, a charge of atmosphere that was palpable. She had a gift for finding common ground with everyone she met. I once heard Tiffany engage in a serious conversation about farm equipment with a shy country boy from the next dorm over. I listened, in disbelief, as she debated the merits of no-till farming. She made that boy feel important without even realizing it. That’s how she was.
Tiffany was most comfortable in the center of the crowd, but I could most often be found lurking in a corner, watching everything and praying no one would try to strike up a conversation with me. I lacked the ability to engage in small talk, or much of any kind of talk, for that matter. Whereas Tiffany infused energy, I felt like a black hole, as if my very existence might drain the light from those around me.
I had not acknowledged these things about myself until Tiffany. Truthfully, I don’t think I’d even recognized them. Her lightness emphasized my darkness, highlighting my inadequacies. It was only after meeting Tiffany that I realized just how damaged I really was.
Don’t misunderstand. It wasn’t as if I’d never felt joy, never laughed aloud, never relished the moment. I had. Of course I had. It’s just that, even as I did, the darkness loomed over me. Not even so much over me as under me, biding its time, waiting to engulf me. It never went away, not even on the brightest of days.
I did attempt psychotherapy, not once but twice. The first therapist outlined a meticulous treatment plan designed to encourage me to be an active participant in my own healing. She explained this to me in excruciating detail and I listened, desperate for help. We discussed my shortcomings and spent weeks devising action steps to assist me in reaching my goals. In the end, when confronted with so much paper and ink proof of my own shortcomings, I did what any rational person would do when confronted with such insurmountable odds. I quit.
The second therapist took a different track. He assured me of my inherent worth. He validated my feelings, no matter how terrible, how frighteningly horrid they were. He accepted me unconditionally, regaled me with never ending positive regard, sat in nonjudgmental acceptance of me. I quit him, too. If he couldn’t see the flaws so obviously apparent within me, I didn’t trust his abilities as a therapist.
It’s hard to find one’s way out of a circle.
My ex-husband had called me Inanna. My ex-therapists called me a veritable alphabet soup of labels, from PTSD to GAD to BPD. Names didn’t matter to me, because I knew what the issue really was: darkness, pure and simple.
Sobbing into my pillow, I wondered if there could be any hope for me. This was actually an improvement over previous thinking, since previously I’d given up. Events lately, however, had made me wonder. After all, even Inanna eventually underwent a spiritual transformation that rendered her whole. Of course, that was only after her rotting corpse had hung on a hook in Hades for a while. Nothing comes free, not even for a goddess.