| |
Panic sets in when I realize Will is really and truly not coming back. My emotions cycle to hell and back, driving me into a vat of nervous energy and giving me a pressing need to do something, anything to regain some semblance of control. Since I can’t afford to live here alone, I’ll have to move. I rummage through drawers and closets, getting rid of excess junk. My budget is under review to determine fund allocation for rent. I browse the Internet for apartments in between staring at my silent phone in disbelief. Will never returned any of my calls and still refuses to pick up his phone.
Doing all of these things makes me sad and it’s really the last thing I want to do while my emotions are still so raw, but I can’t stop and it has to be done. My life is falling apart but keeping busy is the only thing that makes me feel like I might be able to put it back together again.
Each day is a tireless blur of motions from which I feel completely detached. Work. Check Craigslist for new apartment vacancies. Eat. Sleep as much as possible. Self-loathing is a palpable rhythmic throbbing emanating from the center of my head and I’ve forgotten how to smile or laugh. A real smile and a genuine laugh. Not the fake ones we hide behind.
I’m usually really excited about the holiday season if nothing else, but this year even hearing Jingle Bells in the frozen food aisle at the grocery store doesn’t cheer me up. Twinkling lights hang from rooftops and giant blow up snowmen appear on front lawns. In spite of the holiday cheer, I’m a flat and emotionless shell of a person. Between my Dad and Will, I just can’t.
I went over to Sarah’s house for Thanksgiving, and still not a single word from Will. It’s like finding out your favorite show is cancelled right after the biggest plot twist ever in the season finale, only it’s much worse because it’s not characters on TV that are left hanging in the balance—it’s me. He’s gone silent on Facebook, and the only way to track him down would be to show up at his job and as broken as I feel, I’m not full-on psycho. Mercifully, no one asks me about my fiancé, so Sarah must have clued them in on the fiasco.
Christmas is in the air, but neither my mood nor the weather has caught up. While states back east are already feeling the bitter chill of the season, California is boasting the same kind of warmth it does year-round. We’ve had some dips in the temperature for the last few days but it’s been inexplicably warm, staying in the eighties. You won’t ever hear me complain about not getting a white Christmas and I love this freakish bubble of winter warmth, but my goodness why does it have to be so damn expensive?
I’ve been looking for apartments for two months and I think I’m finally ready to pack my bags and move to a town in a fly-over state where the living is cheap. For a brief moment, I considered the possibility of moving to Phoenix with my parents, but with my Dad’s heart attack and loss of income, it turns out they might have to move too. I love North Park, but most of the apartments in my budget are really old or really scary. One block is safe and suburban with a few apartment complexes and little well-kept bungalow homes in between, but just one block over everything appears run down with seedy shops and liquor stores on the corner. One of those HGTV home make over experts could make these dismal apartments look fantastic, but all I see are creepy carpets and dingy kitchens. If I’m lucky enough to see one that might work, someone has already swooped in with security deposit in hand before I even get a chance to look at it. Rooms for rent are cheaper, but I don’t want to get stuck living with someone that I’m not compatible with. After all, didn’t I do that for way too long already?
The hourglass of death won’t stop spinning, and I fear that the next thing in my life to leave me will be my decrepit laptop. The wait time between mouse click and load is agonizing, and I know it’s only a matter of time before it quits altogether. Frustrated, I switch to my phone, but give up minutes later and retreat to my bedroom. A sliver of daylight turning orange is still visible through the closed blinds, but I’m ready for this day to be over. Two sleeping pills should take care of it. Curled into a fetal position, I turn my face into my pillow. It’s soaked with tears by the time that welcome tingling sensation takes over my body then, finally, my brain as the pills work their magic. Sleep is the only real escape, and I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but whatever it is, I want it gone. I wish I could rip it to shreds and cast it out of my life forever, but no matter which way I turn, it’s always there, and in my weakest moments, it screams loudest and longest. Impossible to ignore.
Like that time so long ago when I shut myself in my closet and wasn’t sure I wanted to come out. Ever. Incidentally, I couldn’t even do that right. Tylenol. It couldn’t be that harmful to take too many of those, but I wanted it to be harmful. I wanted to know what it was like. What what was like? My broad shoulders and hefty thighs occupied so much space but I was invisible. If I died tragically, people at school would have to notice I was there. Maybe they would think of me and, if not, at least, the loneliness and self-loathing would go away. I swallowed whatever was left in the bottle and chased it with water from the tap out of a glass. Chilled to the bone by the rush of cold liquids and fear pulsing through my veins, I put the glass aside and burrowed inside my nest of clothes waiting for whatever would come next.
