November - Alli

It's the end of the year, and Alli isn't sure what is going on in her own brain anymore--if she ever did in the first place.

November

Alli

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I spend too much time in bed. When I got home from school today, I went straight for a nap. I woke up in time for dinner, went back to my room and attempted to get homework done, then just ended up here… in bed. I haven’t matched my sheets in ages, so I have a pink fitted sheet, a blue top sheet, and a floral comforter.  I can’t remember the last time I changed my sheets. Damn.  There’s a massive pile of dirty laundry keeping me company by my side.  My phone is by my thigh.  I bring it up and check the time. 11:45pm. My goal is to fall asleep before two, but lately that’s been a faraway goal.

I look across my room and see the mirror I turned around backwards so that it can’t reflect me anymore. The clock above it doesn’t tick anymore after I ripped the second hand out. I was tired of the constant tick tock tick tock tick tock while I couldn’t sleep.

If someone were to ask me a year ago what I thought about Thanksgiving, I would’ve have shrugged and said something about wanting to eat as many mashed potatoes as I could fit into my stomach.  I’m not a huge turkey fan, but I love the sides, like mashed potatoes and stuffing and sweet potatoes and green bean casserole.

            But this Thanksgiving, I need it to go exactly how it should. I have this image of my family beaming at me, thanking me for such a lovely dinner. I need to help out as much as possible. I’ll learn to make a turkey.  I’ll make Great Uncle Pete’s stuffing from scratch.  I’ll learn what the hell is in cranberry sauce and make that happen.  Maybe that could be a good enough apology.

            Each night, I think of all the things I have to apologize for.  I’ve really hit my threshold this time. Last month I tried to throw a joint birthday party for Caroline and Heather, but Caroline didn’t show up.

            “Heather, why do you think Caroline isn’t coming?” I asked, pulling Heather away from Naomi, the only person who showed up that day a month ago.

            Heather looked around nervously, maybe hoping for Mom or Dad to walk through, but they didn’t, so she was stuck with me.

            “Alli,” she started, as if talking to a young child, “Caroline isn’t coming because you two got into a fight last month, remember?”

            I did remember, but it was like an old dream.  I could remember it happening, and see vague details, like the look in her eyes when we were in bed together, but none of it seemed real.  It felt like everything should be fine.  We’ve always been friends, so it just doesn’t make sense that she hadn’t talked to me even once since “the incident.” Her ability to avoid me in school was astounding.

            “Hey,” Heather’s voice brought me back, “Are you feeling okay?”

            “I’m fine. I just don’t know where Caroline is,” I said, somehow my brain still not comprehending.

            “When was the last time you spoke with her? Do you remember?” For some reason, Heather was being remarkably more patient with me than she had been in the past.  Maybe I was really freaking her out.

            “The day we fought,” I answered.

            “Right…” she said, nodding at me like I should get what she’s saying.

            I just looked at her blankly.

            “Alli, I don’t know what happened between you and Caroline, because you refuse to acknowledge anything happened at all,” she held my shoulders, trying to find some recognition in my eyes, “But I know that it was bad and I don’t think she wants to be your friend anymore.”

            “Oh,” I nodded, then felt my pocket vibrate, “I got a text.”

            “Okay,” she squeezed my shoulders lightly then pointed behind herself, “I’m going to go hang out with Naomi.”

            I don’t respond. Instead I stare at the text I just got.

 

From Adam Wright:

hey alli. cant make it 2 the party. sry!

 

He’d been avoiding my texts and calls and eyes at school, too. I glanced over at Heather and Naomi giggling, and decided that it was time for bed. Again, I always just go to bed.

But all of that happened a month ago, and now I am finally starting to understand what was happening.  I was in denial, I think.  For some reason, my brain didn’t have the capacity to understand why Caroline wouldn’t join me at the party, or why Adam would come even after I basically stopped speaking to him after the Caroline Thing. Weirdly, at the time I somehow thought he was avoiding me, when I was clearly the one avoiding him.  That entire month seems like such a blur.

I feel like I don’t have any control over my thoughts anymore.  At least, not the majority of them. My brain just spews and spews and spews and all I can do is tell it to SHUT UP PLEASE SHUT UP.  I want to go to sleep. I just want to sleep and wake up a better person. Maybe a different person.  What if I woke up one day and I was different?  I wish I could just be myself, but better.  Mom and Dad and everyone think I was magically so much better before this year, but that’s not true. I just got tired of hiding how alone and sad and angry I felt all the time.  I kept all of my bad feelings inside and stayed beautiful and cheerful and Alli on the outside.  I knew everyone needed to see Alli.  But one day I broke. 

One day, when I was fifteen, I looked in the mirror, turned around, and puked into the pearly white toilet.  I threw up my breakfast, and my parents made me stay home. My reflection did this. I saw my blonde-hair-blue-eyed self and hated me.  I hated all of me.  I hated how fake and manipulative I was.  I hated how every word out my lips that look like my mother’s is a lie. 

 “I’m fine.”

“I had a great day at school.”

“Of course I love myself!”

“Thanks, I think this skirt looks good, too.”

“I appreciate your concern.”

Lies. Lies lies lies. I’m a zombie, repeating and regurgitating words I know I’m supposed to mean.  Caroline doesn’t think I know that she used to call me Zombie Alli on those days that my brain shuts down because it doesn’t want to deal with all the things I’m forcing it to deal with.  Like feelings. And lack of sleep. Those days when I just say words and phrases that mean something to everyone else, but not to me.  Words are words are words are words they’re NOTHING. They’re nothing. They’re nothing.  One day when she came over to study, she left her laptop open, and I snuck a peak at the journal I knew she kept on there.  I only read one entry, but it mentioned me being Zombie Alli.  I never told her I found out, but I remembered.

“Alli, why are you so angry?” Mom.

I don’t know.

“Alli, where’s your appetite?” Dad.

In the toilet.

“Alli, why are you crying?” Heather.

I don’t know.

“Alli, can I help?” Adam.

You can try.

“Alli, did you sleep last night?” Caroline.

No.

There are new questions every day. New questions and new wants and new fears from everyone. From the people I know I love, but can’t stand to let in. They shouldn’t be sucked into this. Into me.  But I’m too selfish to let them go.  I use them to make me feel better, to make me feel like I’m a person worthy or friends and people who care about me.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Adam says as he covers my mouth with his and sticks his hand into my pants. Am I still in my bed? I think so. How does he have room where there’s so much laundry?

“Get off…” I try to push him away but my voice and body are so weak.

“Baby, just talk to me.”

I don’t know how he’s speaking while kissing me.  I don’t know where I am or how I got there.  Why are his hands so aggressive?

I’m back in my bed thinking again.  I guess that was just a dream.  Another Adam dream. I didn’t even feel myself sleep or wake up. Lately all my dreams featuring Adam have been super weird and short and aggressive. This one was a lot tamer than some of my other ones. I call these kinds of sleeps micro-sleeping.  I don’t know if that’s a real term or not, but that’s what I call them.  It’s when I’m laying in bed like I do every night and eventually fall asleep just for a few minutes, then wake up.  I never feel it happen, and sometimes they feel more like hallucinations than dreams.  Sometimes I snap out of them, and I can feel how wet the sheets are.  Somehow, in that minute of time, I can sometimes break into a cold sweat.  A couple of years ago, if that happened. I would wash my sheets the next morning and put on freshly laundered not-sweaty sheets.  Nowadays, I’m too tired to care.

I think Mom, Dad, and Heather think I sleep during the day because I’m depressed and depressed people sleep all the time.  Really, it’s because I don’t sleep at night and need to sleep at some point, or I’ll go crazy.  Isn’t that what happens?  People go crazy when they don’t sleep enough.  They start trying to gnaw off their own arms.  Something like that.  I’d like to keep my arms intact, even if my brain is shot.  What time is it? I reach again for my phone. 12:49am.

“Alli, what time is it?” Mom is almost always the one to bother me from the other side of my door.

“I don’t know…”

“Time for you to wake up and do your homework.”

“I’m tired.”

“Why are you so tired all the time? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

“Will you wake up for dinner?”

“Sure.” By the point, I usually put a pillow over my head to block her out.

“AlliMae?”

“… yes?”

“We need to talk about your college visits.”

“Later.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

I’ll tell her I’m taking a nap when I get home, and she’ll knock on my door an hour later to wake me up.  Sometimes she demands that I wake up and even comes into my room to physically pull me out of bed.  She did that a lot a couple months ago.  She’s stopped since.  She’s given up on me, which is a smart move on her part.  There’s nothing left to drag out of bed. 

I used to be a really good student.  It used to be fun to do homework with Caroline sometimes.  She’s a better reader than I am.  She picks up on themes and motifs and analyses, while I tend to just read for pleasure, without asking why book is good.  But Caroline can dissect a book in an instant. But in History, I memorize facts and remember events, and I understand how historians think about periods, like Colonial US.  So, we’d actually have fun and help each other.  We’d have study parties with flashcards and paper-writing and we’d both end up doing well.  I stopped being good at school once I stopped pretending I was happy-go-lucky Alli, which is unfortunate, really. I liked being a good student, but it’s hard to concentrate on school and homework when you constantly feel like you’re going crazy.

“Why do we have to sign this test?” Dad.

“Because I failed it.”

“Since when do you fail history tests?” Mom.

“Since last week, apparently.”

“Don’t get smart with me.” Mom.

“Isn’t the problem that I’m not smart enough as it is?”

“You know that’s not the problem.” Mom.

“Okay.”

“The problem is your attitude, Allison.” Mom.

“Okay.”

“How do you expect to get into a good college with these grades?” Mom.

“I don’t know.”

“Great.” Mom. Exasperated.

 “Okay.”

“Are you going to say anything else?” Dad.

“I’m taking a nap.”

Thinking about it, I have no idea if that was a dream or a memory, or maybe a mixture of both.  Did I fall asleep?  Damn it, what time is it? Where’s my phone? Why can’t I move my head?  I have energy to think think think think think think but not to move my body?  I feel like a family of apes is sitting on me.  I hate nighttime.  It’s just full of micro-sleeps and weird energy.

I was originally thinking about Thanksgiving.  And how I’m going to make it a really fantastic one this time, because I need to make it up to them.  To everyone.  I need to get better and maybe I can get better if they can look at me and forgive me and see that I’m trying.  Because I am trying.

“Alli, you don’t have to do this.” Dad.

“I know.”

“Really, you don’t. We can make Thanksgiving dinner like we always do.” Dad.

“What, with me not doing anything?”

“You can do something, if you’d like!” Dad.

“I want this to be perfect.”

“What does that even mean, sweetheart?” Dad.

“Never mind.”

“No, please, tell me what you want out of this.” Dad.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m tired.”

“Why is this so important to you?” Mom.

“It’s not.”

“It obviously is.” Mom.

“Can we please drop it? I’m tired.”

“Okay. I’ll wake you up in an hour.” Dad.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, okay, Dad.”

Again, I have no idea if that was a micro-dream or a memory.  God I hate this.  Doesn’t stop me from not sleeping, though.  Micro-dream or not, it’s how I feel.  I know I can make people feel so much more at ease around me if I can prove that I can do this.  If I stay positive and cheerful and upbeat and awake, then they won’t have to worry.  Then I can repair my damage.  My awful, awful damage.

I can see Caroline on top of me.  She’s kissing my neck and snaking her hands between my legs.  My arms are pinned above my head.  I look up to see Adam holding them there, smirking at me.  He’s mouthing something to me. What is he saying? W***e. W***e. W***e.

I’m awake again.  Why are so many of my micro-dreams sexual this time around?  Maybe because those are the two people whose lives I’ve messed with because of my overwhelming need to be sexual instead of honest.  Or maybe that’s the wrong phrasing. All I know is that if I let my façade crack, then it won’t be long until it breaks completely.  Before now, I wasn’t ready to let go of it.  It was the only way I felt like I was staying alive.  This fake Alli was giving me strength, but at what price?

“Aren’t I supposed to be the sexual one?” When did Adam get into my bed?

“You are sexual! I see the way you stare at my tits.”

“Like a dog?”

“Yeah, you kind of look like a dog. A panting dog.”

“Oh, thanks for that.”

“Do you think I’m hornier than you?’

“That’s a very dangerous question, Alli.”

“Then give me a very dangerous answer.”

“I think your testosterone levels must be pretty high.”

“Actually, that’s a myth.  The amount of testosterone a girl or guy has doesn’t relate to the amount of horniness they feel.”

“Well, well, well. Aren’t you a know-it-all?”

“I just learn things.”

“No, you’re just brilliant.”

“And you’re just full of s**t!”

I know for sure that one is a memory.  That happened in late February, a couple weeks after out big Valentine’s fight.  He didn’t do anything for us for Valentine’s, but I didn’t either, so we both messed up.  I wish I could go back and just admit that I was wrong from the beginning instead of drawing it out into a fight that didn’t need to happen.  I think I used to fight with him so I could see if he really cared about me.  What dumb logic.  Then I just skipped all of that and gave him a lot of oral instead.  I’m such an idiot. 

He was right, though, when he told me that I only wanted to have sex with him so I could keep my mind off of how wretched I feel all the time.  I tried to deny it, and I begged for him to believe me.  Then we had sex and I knew he was right.  I was using him. Am I still using him?  Do we all just use each other?  Did I use Adam and Caroline for power?  Yes, probably.  I don’t know.  Good thing I’m not a therapist, ‘cause I would be going nuts on myself right now.  Actually, I’m already going pretty nuts, but I’d be going even more nuts.  I wouldn’t even be able to nap during the day.  I’d just stay up all night and all day trying to figure myself out with all those technical terms and diagnoses. 

I never want to study psych.

“Caroline, I’m sorry.’

“I’m sorry, too.”

“What are you sorry for?”

“Trusting you.”

“What?”

“I never should have trusted you. You were never my friend.  You always wanted power over me to feel like you were someone.  You always took advantage of me.”

“That’s not true!” Panic panic panic panic.

“Do you love me?”

“Of course I do!” Breathe breathe breathe breathe.

“Well, I could never love you.”

Thank God that one was a micro-dream.  Not a memory.  I would not be able to go through my day if that were a true memory.  I would go absolutely out of my mind with guilt and sadness.  And I already feel pretty out of my mind. 

My hand somehow finds my phone next to me. 3:31am it blinks at me.  When did I move my hand? Damn it, it’s late.  I’ve been at this for four hours.

Why won’t my brain just… shut up?

“I think we’re going to end up applying to very different places.” Adam.

“Is that a problem?”

“No, not really. We’re different people.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re a small, liberal arts school kind of girl.”

“And you’re a frat-loving, giant party school kind of guy.”

“Hey! That’s not totally true.”

I giggle. “What part wasn’t accurate?”

Silence. Then, “Shut up.”

I wish I could forget about college happening. I used to be so excited to apply to Brown and get in on full scholarship because I’m that brilliant. It used to freak Adam out, I think, because we both knew college would probably be the end of our relationship.  It’s weird being in a relationship with someone and being able to predict its end. But now I’ve lost Adam via neglect and denial, and I feel like I’ve lost all hope with college, too, because I need a lot of help before I can go anywhere.

There. I admit it. I need help. I really need a lot of help.  I am messed up and scared and unsure of where my head is at any given time.  I never know if I’m real Alli or the fake Alli I made up because I was scared of being no one.  Why was I so scared?  I had Caroline and I’m sure if I think really hard I could remember others who did try to be my friend. Because I was young and naïve and I thought high school was going to be this perfect place where everyone would love me and I’d always be happy. I did the same thing with college for a while, but I know that if I don’t get some serious professional help soon, I won’t be going anywhere.

Why did I let it get this bad?  I kept blaming everyone else but myself.  I blamed Mom for being too strict, and Dad for not being strict enough.  I blamed Heather for growing into her own person.  I blamed Adam for nearly forcing me to break my fake outer shell, and I blamed Caroline for being someone I could manipulate so easily.  I blamed PMS, stress, lack of sleep, midterms… anyone, anything but me. I couldn’t admit that I wasn’t real, and the me that people were getting used to didn’t truly exist.

I need help. I need help. It’s both freeing and terrifying to admit it, and I don’t know how I’ll tell Mom and Dad.  But maybe if I do, they’ll stop fighting so much.  Heather blamed me for that, and the only reason I denied it was because I thought so, too.  I’ll tell them tomorrow. Or the next day.  I’ll tell them soon, then they’ll know that they can relax and that everything will be okay.

But maybe that’s just another lie.