To: condorboy
Date: Tuesday, March 6—11:29 PM
Subject: Re:
Connor,
I’ve come crawling back with my crooked tail between my legs, my car running on vapors, me running on vapors. Things were sharp and then they weren’t. The world was shiny and bold, and now it’s not. And when I try to remember what happened, I see myself on a train track, trying to outrun the train that is honking like crazy. And I should be scared, but I’m not. And everyone is yelling at me to get out of the way, but I can’t hear anything real. All I hear is the poison inside my head, the voices that sound like me but are not me, the ones telling me to keep running. And I guess I’m here because the train finally caught up with me. The voices screamed as loud as they could, but it was no use. I was hit. It shut them up. And things are still, too still. It is quiet, so quiet the only thing I can hear is myself. And I can’t stand it.
Connor, something is very wrong. I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know who that girl was that ran away, who did all the things I did. I think she’s gone now, but what’s left in her place is just garbage, all the trash she made that she didn’t want to take with her. I have to deal with all the fallout. I’m the one who has to clean up her mess.
I drove to Portland and I found Trevor. That’s what I did. I cannot explain why. Whatever logic I was working with has left me. I remember vague, alien thoughts that seem like they came from someone else’s mind, thoughts that convinced me Trevor was the one I was supposed to be with. Because he doesn’t expect anything from me, because he doesn’t need me to be someone I’m not, because he treats me like the piece of shit I am. And there seemed to be some justice in that, and I remember feeling a kind of comfort in just letting go of any expectations. And for a few moments, I felt free, like everything finally made sense, like I could just finally stop trying, I could give up, and that was the key to happiness.
I have all these words and different ways to use them, but I can’t think of any way to put them together to explain how it feels to have absolutely no idea how I could have come to the conclusions I did. Is this what my brother feels like all the time, after so many years of being totally out of control? At least addicts have the excuse of some foreign chemical entering their body and skewing their judgment. But what’s my excuse? Is it that I’m crazy? Is that enough to get me off the hook?
I remembered something that happened months ago, when I was hanging out with Trevor and a couple of his friends, and they were high and making fun of his apartment in Portland. The building was called Excalibur, and they seemed to think that was the funniest thing ever. I had never even been there, but I could imagine it as they described the logo written in a gaudy Old English font on the entrance, the picture of a helmet and sword on the front door. They were laughing about Excalibur and talking in these fake British accents and pretending to sword fight, and I remember thinking to myself, These guys are supposed to be cool. They’re covered in tattoos and don’t dance at concerts, but here they are stoned and climbing around on the furniture and waving imaginary swords at each other.
But that’s not what I was thinking a week ago when I decided to leave. I was just thinking of Excalibur, the destination. The ridiculous word was pumping through my head like some kind of fucked-up mantra, leading me south to Portland and what I thought was my destiny. In those four hours in the car, I wrote the whole story of my life. Trevor and I would be together, I would be a devoted band girlfriend, I would go to college and do well, but it wouldn’t matter because his band would make it big and we’d get married. And even if he treated me like shit, even if he cheated on me and was on tour most of the year, I wouldn’t have to worry about the important stuff like food and shelter. Because that’s all I really deserved anyway. I could be happy with that. It was asking too much to want anything else.
I found Excalibur. There was a parking spot right in front, and I took that as a sign that it was meant to be. I sat there for a while, practicing what I was going to say, imagining him taking me in his arms and whisking me into his apartment. And I wasn’t scared. There was a sense of the inevitable, like when you’re falling in dreams but it still feels like flying, before you start thinking of the inevitable crash. It was like someone else was moving me as I got out of the car and walked to the front door, as I walked into the building and found his last name on a mailbox, as I climbed the stairs and stood in front of apartment 203, as I knocked and felt nothing.
A woman answered the door. She was pretty but tired. She was holding a baby. She said, “Can I help you?” I said, “Is Trevor here?” but already I knew the answer, already I had given up. She said, “Who are you?” and I didn’t say anything. She said, “I’m Trevor’s wife,” and I just nodded and started backing away. She said, “Who are you?” and I said, “Nobody.”
Nobody. I’m nobody.
I didn’t feel sad. I didn’t cry. I felt emptied out, like something was pulled out from inside me, and it wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling. I felt weightless. I floated across the street and toward Hawthorne. My head was empty. I wandered around, in and out of shops, for hours. I inspected the things they were selling, filling my head with every single detail, filling it so full of useless information there wasn’t room for anything that could hurt me. There was a record store full of beautiful people. One of them spoke to me. I don’t remember what we talked about. But I went with him when he left, I went with him when he went to the bar next door, I went with him after hours of drinks, I went with him back to his apartment.
I don’t want to tell you about the next few days, not because I don’t want you to know, but because I don’t want to think about it. Maybe I will tell you later, after it’s faded a little, when it’s not so fresh, when the memories are just a hazy black and white instead of this sharp color. I don’t know who I was for those days I spent in his apartment. I don’t know who that girl was that was drinking those drinks and snorting those drugs. Something inside me shut off. Maybe it’s a gene we all have in my family, and my brother just tapped into it more. Who knows. But I think I understand him better now. I think I understand the appeal of just throwing yourself away.
And then I woke up. It was morning and I was in bed with this guy whose last name I never knew. There was a full ashtray on the table next to my head, and the smell of it mixed with his drunk breaths. It was raining, and I felt a strong desire to run outside and just let the rain soak me, like maybe some of it could get inside and wash me out. The rain seemed to slow everything down, seemed to dull whatever convictions I had had the past week. I could remember what happened like scenes in a movie, but I no longer had a connection to what had motivated me. My evil twin was gone. She had left me in the night, left me to deal with her destruction.
She taught me how to leave. So that’s what I did. I got in my car and drove the only direction I knew. My dad was home when I got here. He cried and held me until I had to push him off. I told him I was tired. He said okay. So now I’m in my room, writing to you, getting this all down in case it’s gone when I wake up. Because I have a feeling everything’s going to be different tomorrow. I’m going to go downstairs and life is going to be waiting for me, and I’m actually going to have to deal with it. Maybe I’m ready. Maybe I’m not. But I don’t think I really have a choice.
Thank you. For being solid. For everything that you are.
Love,
Isabel