Lessons

Willow cannot cope with chaos

  I never thought I'd need to explain myself to anyone. Much less have to help someone who wasn't myself. Life was always unraveling around me, I was used to the tangled chaos and was content to flounder in it. I was the last person he needed for help, he couldn't handle disorder in his own life, much less mine. He habitually shut himself down when confronted with obstacles or even when he was exposed to something new. He shrugged off responsibility and ambition like a fish swimming through water. His superpower was his ability to shift attention and focus from himself, he wanted to be that thing that was always hovering just out of the corner of your eye. I had to pull him into focus, and I needed him to hold me on solid ground.

"So how many times a day do you mentally insult yourself?" The brittle-boned woman sat up in her over-stuffed chair, waiting impatiently, her pen poised in midair.

"I don't know, you want me to guess?" 

Dr. Matthews nodded. 

I shrugged. "Ten, twenty, one hundred?" I sat on the couch with my legs criss-cross applesauce. They could make me come here but I refused to lie down on the crude vinyl couch. I didn't know how many psychopaths have sweated and cried on that surface, reliving their repressed memories, on the brink of epiphany. Not that I was a psychopath. I knew exactly why I was here, and it wasn't because there was anything wrong with me. 

"I want you to start a journal and record every mean thing you think about yourself. I think once you have a grasp on how self-deprecating you are, you might be able to think less negatively." She scribbled furiously on her pad of paper while she spoke. "You suffer from low self-esteem and debilitating insecurity. I'm going to also prescribe some anti-depressants for you; I want you start on the low-dose for the first week, so you have some time to adjust. Then move up to the higher dose." She ripped the prescription off her pad and handed it to me. I looked at it without moving. I wasn't expecting that. I looked around her office, anything to avoid taking that damned slip of paper. Why is it that psychiatrist's offices always seem to be a disturbing mix of positive reinforcement and propoganda? There were motivational posters on the walls, depicting sunsets and eagles soaring against blue backgrounds. Meanwhile, the blinds were shut and all possible natural light was blocked out. Looking at Dr. Mathews's skim-milk white hands, I wondered if she ever exposed herself to any light besides the bipolar lamp on her desk. Dr. Matthews cleared her throat expectantly, snapping me out of my reverie.

"Sorry." I mumbled, and grabbed the paper from her hand, crumpling it slightly in the process. 

She sighed. "Really Willow, I hoped by now you'd share your thoughts with me."

"Oh look at the time," I got up, pretending to look at a watch on my wrist. "Our hour is up. I'll see you next week Dr. Matthews." I jumped up, bouncing on the balls of my feet to shake the pins and needles from my thighs. 

She looked disappointed, but of course she wouldn't say anything about it to me. That wasn't her job. I gave her a half-hearted wave before opening her office door and stepping into the waiting room. My retinas were fried instantly by all the natural light pouring out of their skylights. I groaned. 

"Done already?" The sullen, 20-something receptionist asked me, snapping her cinnamon gum in between her teeth. 

"Yup." I answered cheerily, my mind already elsewhere, contemplating getting a burrito for lunch. "Same time next week." I turned away from her and almost collided with a pair of shoulders. 

"Oh s**t, excuse me." The shoulders said, moving out of my way, almost tripping over a miniature plastic chair. I looked up to see what head was attached to such a tall torso. I smiled. He was interesting. Not attractive exactly, his nose was a bit too long, his were eyes slightly far apart, his mouth was a little too big. But it was interesting. My fingers started itching for my charcoal, I felt a challenge, a challenge to capture this on paper. He looked uncomfortable, eyes darting back and forth like a trapped animal. I realized that not only had I been staring, I was also blocking his path into Dr. Matthews's office. 

I shifted out of his way, and he gratefully walked past me. He turned around momentarily. "I'm Daniel."

"Willow." I responded. 

He nodded, and I vaguely heard the receptionist snicker. As Daniel walked into the office, I glared at her, trying to remember her name. It was one of those names that was supposed to end in -y but instead ended in -ie. 

"What's so funny?" I demanded. She shook her head, her laughter growing louder and her face turning pink. She managed to take a breath after a couple minutes. Brushing the tears out of her vapid eyes, she said, "You have no idea how many messed up couples we churn out of here. We should run an ad as a dating service."

********

"Robert? Christine?" My voice echoed in the empty house. My parents weren't home. That wasn't surprising. They'd probably told me at some point where they were going this weekend, but I honestly couldn't care enough to remember. I hazarded a guess that it was either Hawaii, St. Barts, or Bali. Now that they were rich they'd decided that not only was I emotionally unstable but that they should engage in all the various activities of the idle rich, like vacationing in tropical areas and getting drunk during the day. It wasn't always like this. I once saw my mom tear apart couch cushions with a hunting knife because she'd lost $5. I shut the front door behind me and breathed in the silence. My shoes clacked across the hardwood floors as I traveled toward the kitchen. The one great thing about the new house was the kitchen. Real gas burners on the stove, marble countertops with a kitchen island, a stone oven for making pizzas, Bay windows, a breakfast nook in the corner, and giant fridge that had voice recognition. It was easily my favorite room in the house. I dropped my book bag on the floor and began my daily ritual of inspecting the contents of our impressive fridge. It was almost lunchtime, and after sitting in that stupid office all morning I was in the mood for something uncomplicated. I pulled the lid off a tupperware dish and sniffed, trying to determine how old the lasagna in there was. 

"Hey Willow." 

I dropped the tupperware, smearing tomato sauce on the tile floor. I already knew who it was without turning around. Who else could break into a house without tripping a high-grade security system that goes off every time a squirrel steps out of line?

"Hey Andrew." I murmured, bending over to pick up the tupperware. He stepped out of the breakfast nook and put his hands in his pockets. 

"How are you?" He asked, sitting at one of the bar stools at the counter. 

"How do you think?" I snapped, finally bracing myself to look him in the eye. He looked the same, his soft brown hair artfully mussed to perfection, his green eyes bloodshot with dark circles underneath.

I forced myself to stay angry at him, anger made me feel stronger, and allowed me to be meaner. If I let myself cry, or do anything else, he might be able to worm his way back into my life.

"I deserve that." He bit his lip, folding and unfolding his hands on the counter. I scooped the lasagna back into the tupperware and dumped it into the sink. I pulled a container of Pad Thai out of the fridge and stuck it in the microwave, plugging in 1 minute and hitting start. If I was going to suffer through this, I was going to at least do it on a full stomach. I pulled a clean fork out of the dishwasher and twirled it in my hand, waiting for him to continue. He took a deep breath before launching into an obviously prepared speech:

"I know you're angry, you have every right to be. You trusted me, and I violated that trust. I was prepared to leave forever, even with the knowledge that you hate me, but I couldn't do it. I had to tell you how I feel. I lov--"

Bee-eep. 

My Pad Thai was done. I took it out, and before Andrew had a chance to start again, I cut him off. "I get that you're sorry. Thank you for saying that. But you're the most fucked up human being I've ever met and I want you to get the hell out of here before I call my dad. He's still looking for you, you know. There is absolutely nothing you could say to me to make what you did okay. So please leave." I savagely dug my fork into the greasy noodles and took a bite. 

He started blinking really fast and gulped loudly. "Please," He rasped. 

I put my fork down. "Get. Out." I pointed to the door. 

He rubbed his eyes and looked down. "Okay." He murmured softly. He placed a small paper bag in front of me. "I thought you might need this."

With that, he opened the back door and walked out of the kitchen. Once he was gone, I collapsed. My knees trembled, and I slid to ground with my back against the counter. I pulled my knees to my chest and placed my head in between my legs. My eyes burned and I rubbed them with the back of my hand, refusing to cry. F*****g Andrew. That slimy piece of s**t managed to unravel my life every time I saw him. He was a leech, a parasite, who fed off my misery. Of course it wasn't his fault, it's never his fault. It wasn't when he needed a place to stash his weed so he put it in my locker, not knowing they were being searched that day. It wasn't when he stole his father's gun and accidentally shot the windshield of my car. It wasn't when he poured vodka into the wrong bottle and I got drunk before having to perform in our school's rendition of Avenue Q. And, most recently, it wasn't his fault when he had sex with my mom and consequently punched my dad, breaking his nose.

I reached up behind me and blindly groped for my fork. I gripped it tightly, and stabbed the wooden drawer next to me. I breathed out, and closed my eyes. I stabbed the wood again and again, gouging holes in the soft chestnut. White hands. I grinned and started carving lines. Bloodshot green eyes. I started laughing. Ending in -ie instead of -y. I laughed so hard the tears I'd fought earlier gathered in the corners of my eyes, and gradually ran down my cheeks. Lasagna. I laughed at the drawer and how ugly it looked now. Shattered glass. The rest of the drawers in the kitchen were still beautiful and unmarked, lucky that I hadn't chosen one of them as my victim. White hands. But at least now I wasn't alone. We could be ugly together.

Mom and Dad were pissed about the drawer. Well, Mom was, screaming about how I always try to ruin everything, just like I ruined her career, the same crap I always hear. But Dad was fine. They came home on Sunday from Cabo (I know, they were spontaneous this time.) and Dad just sighed and said, "Well, at least you destroyed something easily replaceable."

I love my dad. Even though about a year ago his startup suddenly started generating millions instead of 5-figure thousands, he still tries to be the same guy. He hasn't completely lost it, like my mom has. Suddenly she's Sarah Bernhardt, with the dramatic crying and overdone swooning. Everything and anything can be a trigger for her moods, and it rubs my nerves raw. Dad says that if I'd known my grandma, her mother, I'd have a better idea of what she had to go through growing up, and how it was a miracle Mom was so strong. He sees the best in her and always has, but I can't. All I can do when I look at her is hope I won't be genetically predisposed to be her by the time I'm 40. 

Sitting in my room, away from the hysterical yelling, I can breathe slightly easier knowing my mom was taking the brunt of her anger out on my dad. My room is my sanctuary, always has been, even in the old house. I loved our ramshackle house outside of town. The wallpaper peeled in the summer, and I loved stripping pieces off when I was little, using them to make patterns on the linoleum kitchen floor. I would wake up sometimes at night when I couldn't sleep and find my mom out there, scrubbing at the gray linoleum with a little green sponge, crying because she couldn't get it to look clean. The next day her hands would be cracked and raw from bleach, and she'd wear gloves, even if it was hot out. She hated it, but I loved it. The cracked plaster and splintered floorboards were my friends, they'd smile and wink to comfort me. If my parents were in a fight, I'd do a jig on the trio of squeaky floorboards by the stairs to make them laugh.

 When I first heard we were moving I panicked, terrified of having to change anything, of living in a place shiny and new, not broken yet. It had no character, no personality, and felt cold and unfriendly the moment I crossed the threshold.

I can barely hear Robert and Christine's muffled voices from up here, but if I listen through the vent I can make out their conversation. Mom is reminding him again how lucky he is that she stuck around. 

Dad was a photographer for a time when he was younger, because he needed the cash and hadn't figured out what to do with his life yet. He was never truly attractive, I've seen pictures, but he's short, with thick black hair and an expressive face. My mom was a model. My dad managed to charm her, a one-night stand turned into me, and the rest is history. Now, she likes to remind me of what a success she could have been if I hadn't come along and she hadn't been raised Catholic. 

I open my sketchbook, cross-legged on my bed, put my earbuds in, and press shuffle on my ipod. I lay out my pastels and charcoals in an organized row across my lavender bedspread, mulling over my options. He was a green. Not a forest green, more of an endive green. I pick the closest color possible. I pause for a moment before marking the thick, crisp paper. This was my favorite part; the moment right before I start, where the picture is still held captive in my mind and isn't quite real. I breathe out slowly, falling into the beat of the song. I carve a streak across the paper--a curve of a chin, an outline of two perfectly unique cheekbones, the beginnings of a forehead. It was difficult, doing it from memory, but after a while I can stop thinking about it. My mind is no longer connected to my hand, it moves freely without restriction. I can't help it, I start thinking about Andrew. 

We never dated. Our "relationship" didn't work like that, we were more like a work wife and husband, where our dynamic is very relationship-like, but with nothing sexual involved. I've known him since the first day of 3rd grade, when some other boys tripped him on the way to the jungle gym, and as he fell he reached out for something to break his fall, and he ended up grabbing the back of my skirt, pulling it down and revealing a neon-pink pair of Hello Kitty underwear. Later, when he tried to apologize to me while we were in line for the drinking fountain, I returned the favor. 

He was my best friend ever since. I knew he was a lightning rod for bad coincidences and unfortunate mistakes, but I kept him around, and through the years he became a fixture in my life and my family. I always reminded myself that the bad stuff that happened to him and consequently me was never intentional and I had to forgive him. So coming home one day after soccer practice ended an hour later than usual and hearing screaming coming from upstairs, I braced myself for the worst. Or what I'd thought was the worst. Sometimes Andrew came over and puttered around, anything to avoid being in his own house. I figured he'd broken another china vase or spilled root beer on the persian rug in my dad's study. I opened the bedroom door and was shoved aside as Andrew barreled out, struggling to pull his pants on over his skinny naked a*s, and my dad grabbing after him, blood gushing out of his face. My mom was still inside, screaming nonsense after them, and then at me. I stood there gritting my teeth. Still wearing my cleats, I turned around and kicked the hall window, shattering glass and cutting my legs. I jumped out.

That was 2 months ago. I landed in the briar patch, causing some nasty scrapes, but no broken bones. Deciding I was suicidal, my parents started making me go to Dr. Matthews. I tried to explain it to them, and then later to Dr. Matthews, that I wasn't trying to kill myself because I was depressed. I did it to punish them. I wanted to punish my mother for being such a b***h all the time, to me and my dad, and for not even shouldering the blame for cheating. She blamed my dad for being gone too much, for making her feel "unwanted." Unwanted. For f**k's sake, she'd been making me feel unwanted since I was born. And I wanted to punish Andrew, I wanted him to carry around the guilt of my death for the rest of his pathetic life. I still don't understand why he did that to me, and I don't think I want to understand. But I hope he's miserable, wherever he is. I hope he lives forever, in complete and utter misery.

There was a soft knock on my door. I looked down at what my picture had become and grimaced. I closed the sketchbook. 

"Come in."

My dad opened the door a crack and poked his head in. "Hey there."

"Hey Robert. Is it over?"

"Yeah. He looked over his shoulder before coming inside and shutting the door behind him. "Your mother is pretty upset."

"Christine is always upset."

My dad sighed. "Can you cut it with the whole first-name thing? I'm your f*****g father, not your Chem Lab partner."

"I'll take you off first-name basis when you both start acting like parents. It's a privilege, not a right. 

"Look. You know you're my favorite child--"

"How many times do I have to tell you that you can't say s**t like that?"

He grinned and shrugged. "I can say it when your brother's not here. Talking behind people's backs can't hurt them."

I rolled my eyes. "Anything else you'd like to say while you're here?"

He shook his head and pulled a paper bag from behind his back. "This was on the kitchen counter downstairs. I assume it's yours."

I made no move to take it. He paused for a moment, and then set it on my dresser. "Judging by its contents, I'm guessing Andrew somehow got in the house again?"

I nodded.

My dad shook his head. "That boy is broken. I always thought it, but I was never truly sure until he decided to break my face." My dad turned to leave and opened the door. "But he loves you. That's his one redeeming quality. He just can't handle the responsibility of loving someone."

I didn't believe him. I hated Andrew. All those romantic comedies try to spin feelings of hate into potential feelings of love, and that formula is complete bullshit.

I glared at the paper bag, blaming it for reminding me of him. A disease. A flesh-melting disease. I tossed the contents out on my bed. Tangled strands of film strips meshed together, unrecognizable from a distance. Film negatives, undeveloped pictures from his darkroom. I pulled one close to my face, and the two of us, our eyes squinting from the sun, had wrapped ourselves in a hug. I shrieked, and threw them at the wall. I screamed again, louder this time. Shattered glass.

*******

"You can make me be here, but that doesn't mean I have to talk. You get paid either way, so why do you care?" I scooted around a little, trying to make the vinyl yield to my a*s. I was back here, now five sessions a week. I was scaring my dad. I could see his worry, but it doesn't really mean anything. Every now and then I deviate from myself, what's so wrong about that? 

So now every weekday at 3 p.m. I have to sit in a dark, cramped office and talk about myself, trying to ignore the dandruff flakes that spot Dr. Matthews's trademark polyester blouses.

Dr. Matthews groaned. "Willow, you're my patient, and it's my duty to try to help you, whether you want it or not!" She stood up and slammed her clipboard down. 

"I don't care if this is unprofessional, but you're going to talk, if not to me, then to someone!" 

She opened the office door and looked out. "You, yes, come here please." She waved someone over and looked back at me. "Today we're going to try something different. You're going to have a "conversation" with him instead of me."

She pulled the door back and Daniel, hunched over sheepishly, walked in. 

"You have to be joking. Isn't this a violation of doctor-patient confidentiality?" I crossed my arms defiantly.

She smiled smugly. "Technically, since I'm not telling him anything about you, you're telling him, it's not. You told me you don't socialize with others in your peer group, and I'd like to see an interaction where you aren't so glaringly defensive." She sat down on a chair in the corner as if to end the conversation. Daniel looked confused, almost bewildered, like a newborn contending with his first glimpse of the world. His shaggy blond hair brushed the tops of his eyelashes, and as he fumbled around for a seat, I could see his eyes were green. Endive green. I relaxed a little. If all I had to do was talk to him, a guy who didn't seem capable of mind games or manipulation of any kind, this would be easy. He finally settled gingerly into the chair Dr. Matthews had occupied, and took a deep breath. He drummed his fingers on his knees.

"I don't get it." He spoke slowly, as if each word required a herculean effort to produce. "What are we supposed to be doing?"

We both turned to Dr. Matthews, who pointedly looked back at us. She didn't open her mouth. 

I tapped my toes against the floor. The silence stretched out. It piled on second after second, building a monument to my utter impatience, my hatred for the uncomfortable nothingness we shared. I thought it would press up against the ceiling, shatter the windows, swallow me completely whole when he cleared his throat.

"So, you're Willow, right?" He blustered.

"Yeah," I shivered in relief that the silence had been broken. "So Daniel, why are you here?"

He looked surprised. "Why are you?" He retorted, again with exaggerated slowness.

"My family's nuts, so they decided I'm nuts."

He nodded. "Mine too."

"What did you do?" I asked. It didn't matter if he'd done anything or not, everyone has something they dwell on, and it was most likely to be the first thing he'd bring up.

He shrugged his impressive shoulders. "I set fire to the garage. It was an accident, but they thought I did it on purpose. What did you do?"

"That's not important. Has anyone ever told you that you have an incredibly interesting face?" 

"What?" He narrowed his eyes, suspicious that I was making fun of him.

"I'm serious. I tried sketching you the other night but doing it from memory was too difficult."

"You have the same hands Molina had." 

"Who?"

"Molina. She was a Brazilian painter who could feel colors. Same fingertips. Same thumb joints."

I glared at my thumbs. I wanted them to be mine, not someone else's. My feelings, my colors. "Maybe I do." I whispered.

"You wish for things too much." He murmured. 

"What?" I stopped caring about my thumbs.

"You wish your family could be different, that your life could be different. That you could draw me from memory. But sometimes it's not about what you wish for, it's about what someone else is wishing for." 

"Seriously?" I rolled my eyes. I didn't need to listen to some hippie bullshit. "Are we done here?" I grabbed my canvas bag and brushed carpet lint off it before standing up.

"Think about it." Daniel grabbed my wrist lightly, moving oddly fast. I paused. "You wished you didn't have to come back here. I wished that I'd get to see you again. Who lucked out, you or me?"

He released my arm and sat back down. The only sound in the room was Dr. Matthews's jaw clicking after dropping in amazement. She clapped her hands once and laughed. 

"It worked, it worked!" She started clucking gleefully, playing with her papers. "I got it all on tape!" She crowed. I couldn't understand what she was so excited about. We'd had maybe five minutes of conversation and learned almost nothing. Dr. Matthews walked past me over to Daniel and squeezed his arm. 

"I am so proud of you." She patted his bicep sweetly.

"What the f**k are you talking about?" I spat.

"Willow!" Dr. Matthews snapped.

"It's okay." Daniel interjected. "She doesn't understand. You see, that's the longest conversation I've had with someone who isn't my sister."

"So?"

Dr. Matthews pursed her lips and looked down. Daniel smiled wistfully. "My sister's been dead for two years."

Green eyes.

"I'm not crazy," Daniel tried to explain. But I couldn't hear. I couldn't listen. There's pealing bells, a ringing sounding through my head. 

"I know she isn't alive. I know, I was there when she died. But I can still talk to her sometimes, if I need to. Dr. Matthews says it's a defense mechanism, that I use her to prevent myself from connecting to others. Connections are difficult for me." He held his hands out plaintively, but I couldn't help myself. I turned away.

"I'd really like to go now." I whispered, avoiding his gaze. 

"What are you more scared of?" His eyes bored into mine, and I struggled to remember that we were in a relatively normal setting, with Dr. Matthews wringing her hands less than 3 feet away. "Me, or changes within yourself?" 

"Would you stop throwing around this zen crap? I'm fine, I'm not the one walking around with voices in my head."

He turned beet red. "I don't hear voices." He growled, his hands shaking slightly at his waist. "You're the one who can't control yourself. You refuse to let anyone touch you, so you surround yourself with chaos."

I backed away, and as soon as I'd cleared the door, I bolted. I sped past "Kimmie" or whatever her name was, ignoring the clipboard she waved at me as I ran past. There would be no more appointments, no more long hours in Dr. Matthews's office. Down the stairs. I couldn't breathe. I struggled, in my aggravated state, to understand why he'd been able to crawl inside my skin. I can't feel pain or fear from others. Before my parents took me out of school, bullies would try in vain to needle me, to push me over the edge, without success. I got my hair ripped out and insults hurled at me, I was forced to the brink of tears, but they got nothing. I refused to give them what they wanted most. I was cold as stone. No, no! I'm solid and formidable, like an oak tree. Are trees formidable? That doesn't make any sense, f**k! F**k, I'm nothing, I feel nothing! Feel nothing! But in a 10 minute conversation with Daniel all of my weaknesses were brought so close to the surface I thought for a second I'd let them through. I'm not weak! I refuse to be weak! 

I made it outside before the tears came. The wind hit me like a slap in the face. My legs shuddered. I didn't have to turn around to know that Daniel had followed me. I felt his hand on my shoulder, not comforting or even reassuring, just a heavy weight, like an old brick.

"I'm not happy." I started. I paused, expecting him to say something. He waited for me to continue.

"I haven't been happy for a long time. I do all this stupid s**t because I'm trying to distract myself, preventing myself from becoming the person I want to be. I hold on to things because it's like I need reminders that I'm not alone. My whole room is a damn shrine to things that have happened a long time ago and friends that I used to have. Sometimes I just want to rip everything apart and feel my blank walls. But I hold back, because I'm afraid of starting with nothing. I hate feeling like this. I can't place it, it's this manic energy to do something anything before I explode but I'm trapped in this damn body. I'm constantly fighting the urge to rip my life and everyone else's lives apart. I want the tattered remains of what we are to blow away one by one, until everything crumbles to dust."

"That's who I am, who I've been, who I will be. I will destroy you too." I hold my stomach, my chest heaving from spilling my words so quickly.

He's laughing.

"You want to break everything apart. I want to sit by and watch it happen all on its own. I want to feel my bones dry out and my mind melt while everyone else collapses from too much use."

I turn around. His face is motionless, calm and serene, the intensity of his brow smoothed and buffed into marble. The only movement between us was the wind ruffling his cotton candy hair. Smooth solid as stone, he would wait forever and slowly be eroded away. A rock.

And I am water.