1/27/2016
cottonmouth
(Non-fiction)
According to Merriam-Webster dictionary, anxiety is: an apprehensive uneasiness or nervousness usually over an impending or anticipated ill; mentally distressing concern or interest; or a strong desire sometimes mixed with doubt, fear, or uneasiness. Anxiety is feeling the cotton begin to form in my mouth, lining my cheeks and coating my tongue, as words become hard to form. The white fluff begins to crawl down the back of my throat, restricting my airway. The fear and unease begins to creep through my veins and paralyze my body, as if I’ve just been bitten by a cottonmouth. My pulse quickens and each beat of my heart brings the poison closer to its center. I can’t do anything to stop the spreading. There is no antivenom. Once I’ve been struck I must feel every second of excruciating pain and pray that it never reaches my vital organs. Palms sweat. My insides churn like a Dutch maid is making butter with soured milk. Vision blurs as I forget to blink and my contact lenses turn to glass over my corneas. Sound is funneled. Each set of eyes in the room is throwing daggers into my body. My cheeks flush with crimson embarrassment. I try to talk myself down off the cliff, but I’m too late, I’m already falling.
Symptoms associated with generalized anxiety disorder, according to the National Institute of Mental Health include: restlessness or feeling wound-up or on edge; being easily fatigued; difficulty concentrating or having their minds go blank; irritability; muscle tension; difficulty controlling the worry; sleep problems. Symptoms can also include having a panic attack every single morning on the way to school as a seventh grader. These panic attacks will eventually lead to screaming fits with my mother because I am unable to articulate the thoughts and feelings that are taking over my body. My mother believes I’m faking a stomach ache, and faking the shortness of breath, and faking the fevers simply because I don’t want to attend school.
I didn’t want to attend school; but even more than that, I didn’t want my body and my mind to be at odds with one another. I felt like I was in the middle of a boxing ring, wishing I could hear the bell before my opponent, my own brain, knocks me out. I began trying to induce vomiting in the mornings before leaving for school. I was sick, truly, but my body betrayed me and would not produce any physical signs of my ailments. My guts were churning, that Dutch maid was right on schedule, yet I couldn’t purge her from my body. The handle of my toothbrush only made the back of my throat raw and pushed the cotton further down my windpipe. Letters from the school concerning the forty-five school days I had missed before the one-hundred-and-eighty-day school year was even up prompted my mother to seek medical attention. An appointment with a gastroenterologist was the final straw. “If he says nothing is wrong with you, you’re not missing a single day of school! I’ll throw your ass into the building! I can’t take this anymore. I’m tired.”
How could I tell my mother that I was also tired? Tired of not being in control of my body. I remember walking into the x-ray room and thinking it looked like a submarine. The lighting was dim but gave off a blue hue. I was instructed to swallow a thick, pale, chalky syrup and rest against a vertical table. As the goo slid down my esophagus, it mixed with the cotton, and I imagine it spilled onto the bonnet of the Dutch maid in the pit of my guts. I was strapped to the table like a frog ready for dissection in a Biology lab. The cottonmouth struck my ankle as I was left alone in the submarine. The board I was strapped to started to raise and became horizontal. I began moving about the room, being slowly tossed and turned on the table. The poison began to seep through my veins. What if there is nothing wrong with me? What if I don’t get better? I can’t feel this way every day of my life. Once the carnival ride was over, I sat in an examination room with my mother while the doctor read the results of my x-ray. I had acid-reflux which resulted in ulcers being formed deep within my stomach as well as my duodenum. Apparently having ulcers on the latter part of the digestive tract was a rarity. My gastroenterologist suggested I seek a therapist for my anxiety, and prescribed a medication that would temper the acidity of my guts. Satisfied to learn that I was experiencing actual physical issues, I took the medicine but refused the therapy. The snakes seemed satisfied with my decision for the time being.
The National Institute of Mental Health lists several different treatments for anxiety disorders: psychotherapy, self-help or support groups, stress management techniques, and medication. Holistic anxiety tablets, and regular intervals of exercise, coupled with the distraction of high school boys kept the snakes satiated enough to leave me alone for the most part. I would get bitten before big presentations, and first dates, but the poison was mainly a dull ache. I didn’t feel the complete fury of the cottonmouth until an August night in 2013, the night before I was supposed to move out of my family home and attend college at a major university. Countless snakes struck me as I lay curled in the fetal position of my parent’s bathroom floor. Thoughts were racing through my mind, I remember biting my forearm to the point of blood. I don’t know why I felt compelled to join the snakes in their attack. The pain grounded me; it was the only thing I could feel. My body was numb. My mind was on fire. I wasn’t breathing, the cotton was back and had completely constricted my airway. The Dutch maid wasn’t churning spoiled butter; she was splashing molten lava on the walls of my abdomen. The world was collapsing around me. The venom was finally beginning to reach vital organs. I was consumed.
A knock on the bathroom door from my younger sister was the only salvation. The sound startled the snakes and they left my crumpled corpse on the floor. The next morning I withdrew from all of my classes and removed all of my belongings from the apartment I had already paid for. My parents forced me to attend sessions with a therapist. I don’t remember much about the therapy sessions. I remember crying while sitting next to my mother. Not fully understanding why I was crying at all. Perhaps I was crying because I just wanted my brain to stop attacking itself. Crying because I could see the toll my snakes had taken on the face of my mother. Crying because this stranger now knows the darkest parts of me. Crying because I knew no matter what I did, this cottonmouth was a part of me, and always would be.
Symptoms associated with generalized anxiety disorder, according to the National Institute of Mental Health include: restlessness or feeling wound-up or on edge; being easily fatigued; difficulty concentrating or having their minds go blank; irritability; muscle tension; difficulty controlling the worry; sleep problems. Symptoms can also include having a panic attack every single morning on the way to school as a seventh grader. These panic attacks will eventually lead to screaming fits with my mother because I am unable to articulate the thoughts and feelings that are taking over my body. My mother believes I’m faking a stomach ache, and faking the shortness of breath, and faking the fevers simply because I don’t want to attend school.
I didn’t want to attend school; but even more than that, I didn’t want my body and my mind to be at odds with one another. I felt like I was in the middle of a boxing ring, wishing I could hear the bell before my opponent, my own brain, knocks me out. I began trying to induce vomiting in the mornings before leaving for school. I was sick, truly, but my body betrayed me and would not produce any physical signs of my ailments. My guts were churning, that Dutch maid was right on schedule, yet I couldn’t purge her from my body. The handle of my toothbrush only made the back of my throat raw and pushed the cotton further down my windpipe. Letters from the school concerning the forty-five school days I had missed before the one-hundred-and-eighty-day school year was even up prompted my mother to seek medical attention. An appointment with a gastroenterologist was the final straw. “If he says nothing is wrong with you, you’re not missing a single day of school! I’ll throw your ass into the building! I can’t take this anymore. I’m tired.”
How could I tell my mother that I was also tired? Tired of not being in control of my body. I remember walking into the x-ray room and thinking it looked like a submarine. The lighting was dim but gave off a blue hue. I was instructed to swallow a thick, pale, chalky syrup and rest against a vertical table. As the goo slid down my esophagus, it mixed with the cotton, and I imagine it spilled onto the bonnet of the Dutch maid in the pit of my guts. I was strapped to the table like a frog ready for dissection in a Biology lab. The cottonmouth struck my ankle as I was left alone in the submarine. The board I was strapped to started to raise and became horizontal. I began moving about the room, being slowly tossed and turned on the table. The poison began to seep through my veins. What if there is nothing wrong with me? What if I don’t get better? I can’t feel this way every day of my life. Once the carnival ride was over, I sat in an examination room with my mother while the doctor read the results of my x-ray. I had acid-reflux which resulted in ulcers being formed deep within my stomach as well as my duodenum. Apparently having ulcers on the latter part of the digestive tract was a rarity. My gastroenterologist suggested I seek a therapist for my anxiety, and prescribed a medication that would temper the acidity of my guts. Satisfied to learn that I was experiencing actual physical issues, I took the medicine but refused the therapy. The snakes seemed satisfied with my decision for the time being.
The National Institute of Mental Health lists several different treatments for anxiety disorders: psychotherapy, self-help or support groups, stress management techniques, and medication. Holistic anxiety tablets, and regular intervals of exercise, coupled with the distraction of high school boys kept the snakes satiated enough to leave me alone for the most part. I would get bitten before big presentations, and first dates, but the poison was mainly a dull ache. I didn’t feel the complete fury of the cottonmouth until an August night in 2013, the night before I was supposed to move out of my family home and attend college at a major university. Countless snakes struck me as I lay curled in the fetal position of my parent’s bathroom floor. Thoughts were racing through my mind, I remember biting my forearm to the point of blood. I don’t know why I felt compelled to join the snakes in their attack. The pain grounded me; it was the only thing I could feel. My body was numb. My mind was on fire. I wasn’t breathing, the cotton was back and had completely constricted my airway. The Dutch maid wasn’t churning spoiled butter; she was splashing molten lava on the walls of my abdomen. The world was collapsing around me. The venom was finally beginning to reach vital organs. I was consumed.
A knock on the bathroom door from my younger sister was the only salvation. The sound startled the snakes and they left my crumpled corpse on the floor. The next morning I withdrew from all of my classes and removed all of my belongings from the apartment I had already paid for. My parents forced me to attend sessions with a therapist. I don’t remember much about the therapy sessions. I remember crying while sitting next to my mother. Not fully understanding why I was crying at all. Perhaps I was crying because I just wanted my brain to stop attacking itself. Crying because I could see the toll my snakes had taken on the face of my mother. Crying because this stranger now knows the darkest parts of me. Crying because I knew no matter what I did, this cottonmouth was a part of me, and always would be.
4/28/2016
Apple Picking
(Non-fiction)
It was a sunny day in late August; my younger sister and I were spending the weekend at my Grandparents house. We spent many weekends running through and around their grapevine, skipping through their garden (ruining many a pair of white sneakers in the bright red mud), and playing hide and seek by the clothesline. Their property was magic to a small child. Even as fourteen year old, I still enjoyed those slow weekends; watching Grandpa read from his bible while Grandma adjusted the antenna on the television so we could watch Inside Edition with Deborah Norville. At my Grandparents house, life felt simple; they were predictable and debates always swayed in the favor of my sister and me.
On this particular August day, my Grandpa decided to mix up the routine a bit. He sauntered over to the shed and procured a small ladder. He dragged the rickety wooden thing through the yard and perched it under his apple tree. I suppose my sister and I convinced him we were old enough to not kill ourselves on a ladder. He had grown too old to pick the apples for himself and instead would collect the ones that fell to the ground. The sun was really high, but the breeze was cool and inviting. The day was begging to be seized and apparently my Grandpa’s stomach was begging for fresh apples.
“Harley, just eat the apples on the ground!” my Grandma protested in her Southern-Yankee hybrid drawl. She was born and raised in Illinois, but moved to North Carolina when she was just seventeen after marrying my Grandpa.
“Now dush. These gurls want thom fresh apples” he grinned. Grandpa always played around with his words when he was talking to or around my sister and me. It was his own version of baby-talk that persisted long after his two grandchildren had grown. Grandpa was a true country man. Born and raised in eastern Tennessee. He was neighbors with a young Dolly Parton. He doubted she would ever remember him, but he remembered “that scrawny little thang.” He wore a uniform of khaki slacks, crisp white tank tops (that my grandma washed and starched relentlessly), and pastel, collared button ups. My entire life, I was convinced he only owned two pairs of shoes – his black loafers, which he polished by the light of his touch lap every night, and his slippers, which looked exactly like his loafers but instead of leather, were made of suede. Grandpa was always telling stories about his life; he grew up mischievous and poor. As a teenager, he once tied a stick of dynamite to cow’s tail and blew a canyon into a pasture. I like to think that I inherited both his mischievous streak and knack for storytelling. The best part of his storytelling was his laugh; he would hysterically laugh at his own tales to the point of tears, which would always infuriate my Grandma because he “wasn’t tallin’ it right!”
My Grandma rolled her eyes and went into the house, emerging a few moments later carrying an old white bed sheet with thin blue stripes. The sheet would serve as our apple net. Me being the oldest grandchild and hellion that I was, decided I was going to be the one who climbed the ladder. My Grandpa, Grandma, and sister stayed on the ground holding the bed sheet net to catch the apples I picked. Only, I wouldn’t pick the apples. I grabbed whole branches and shook vigorously so that the apples would detach and plummet towards the ground. The three below scrambled around to catch the falling fruit bombs. It was snowing bright green leafs and crisp red McIntosh.
I clambered up to the top rung of the ladder so that I could reach higher branches and feel like I was living dangerously. The four of us were laughing hysterically. I shook one branch a tad too vigorously and a jagged piece of bark tumbled into my eye. The laughter halted in that moment. It’s strange how something so seemingly insignificant can cause such immense pain. It felt as though a canyon was being ripped into the defenseless white of my eye (no dynamite required). Tears immediately began to fill the hole that was being formed as everyone ran towards the tree to help me down the ladder. I ended up with a scratched cornea; it was nothing life-threatening, just annoying. Annoying because I had blurry vision for a week and annoying because our apple harvest was cut so abruptly short. Much like my Grandpa’s life. Life seems to enjoy metaphors. In just a few short years my Grandpa was going to be diagnosed with lung cancer, endure months of chemotherapy, and pass away just two months after I turned eighteen.
Sure, I remember the months of deterioration. The months I avoided visiting the house I spent nearly every weekend and summer in because I couldn’t bear to see my Grandpa wither away like unattended crops; maybe things would have been easier if that piece of bark had blinded me. I remember the last coherent thing he ever said to me, “I love you more than anything.” But my fondest memory, the one that sticks out above all others, is the memory of picking apples with my family and scratching my cornea. Maybe that's the secret to remembering. The scratch on my eye left just enough space for the memory to slip into my sub consciousness. It's blurry and only visible through tears. Years have passed but I can still feel that little piece of bark sneak past my eyelid. It has molded itself into a piece of paper, so that I can write this down and remember. Remember the apples. The thin cotton bed sheet that served as a net. And the smiles of a family who did not sense the coming pain.
On this particular August day, my Grandpa decided to mix up the routine a bit. He sauntered over to the shed and procured a small ladder. He dragged the rickety wooden thing through the yard and perched it under his apple tree. I suppose my sister and I convinced him we were old enough to not kill ourselves on a ladder. He had grown too old to pick the apples for himself and instead would collect the ones that fell to the ground. The sun was really high, but the breeze was cool and inviting. The day was begging to be seized and apparently my Grandpa’s stomach was begging for fresh apples.
“Harley, just eat the apples on the ground!” my Grandma protested in her Southern-Yankee hybrid drawl. She was born and raised in Illinois, but moved to North Carolina when she was just seventeen after marrying my Grandpa.
“Now dush. These gurls want thom fresh apples” he grinned. Grandpa always played around with his words when he was talking to or around my sister and me. It was his own version of baby-talk that persisted long after his two grandchildren had grown. Grandpa was a true country man. Born and raised in eastern Tennessee. He was neighbors with a young Dolly Parton. He doubted she would ever remember him, but he remembered “that scrawny little thang.” He wore a uniform of khaki slacks, crisp white tank tops (that my grandma washed and starched relentlessly), and pastel, collared button ups. My entire life, I was convinced he only owned two pairs of shoes – his black loafers, which he polished by the light of his touch lap every night, and his slippers, which looked exactly like his loafers but instead of leather, were made of suede. Grandpa was always telling stories about his life; he grew up mischievous and poor. As a teenager, he once tied a stick of dynamite to cow’s tail and blew a canyon into a pasture. I like to think that I inherited both his mischievous streak and knack for storytelling. The best part of his storytelling was his laugh; he would hysterically laugh at his own tales to the point of tears, which would always infuriate my Grandma because he “wasn’t tallin’ it right!”
My Grandma rolled her eyes and went into the house, emerging a few moments later carrying an old white bed sheet with thin blue stripes. The sheet would serve as our apple net. Me being the oldest grandchild and hellion that I was, decided I was going to be the one who climbed the ladder. My Grandpa, Grandma, and sister stayed on the ground holding the bed sheet net to catch the apples I picked. Only, I wouldn’t pick the apples. I grabbed whole branches and shook vigorously so that the apples would detach and plummet towards the ground. The three below scrambled around to catch the falling fruit bombs. It was snowing bright green leafs and crisp red McIntosh.
I clambered up to the top rung of the ladder so that I could reach higher branches and feel like I was living dangerously. The four of us were laughing hysterically. I shook one branch a tad too vigorously and a jagged piece of bark tumbled into my eye. The laughter halted in that moment. It’s strange how something so seemingly insignificant can cause such immense pain. It felt as though a canyon was being ripped into the defenseless white of my eye (no dynamite required). Tears immediately began to fill the hole that was being formed as everyone ran towards the tree to help me down the ladder. I ended up with a scratched cornea; it was nothing life-threatening, just annoying. Annoying because I had blurry vision for a week and annoying because our apple harvest was cut so abruptly short. Much like my Grandpa’s life. Life seems to enjoy metaphors. In just a few short years my Grandpa was going to be diagnosed with lung cancer, endure months of chemotherapy, and pass away just two months after I turned eighteen.
Sure, I remember the months of deterioration. The months I avoided visiting the house I spent nearly every weekend and summer in because I couldn’t bear to see my Grandpa wither away like unattended crops; maybe things would have been easier if that piece of bark had blinded me. I remember the last coherent thing he ever said to me, “I love you more than anything.” But my fondest memory, the one that sticks out above all others, is the memory of picking apples with my family and scratching my cornea. Maybe that's the secret to remembering. The scratch on my eye left just enough space for the memory to slip into my sub consciousness. It's blurry and only visible through tears. Years have passed but I can still feel that little piece of bark sneak past my eyelid. It has molded itself into a piece of paper, so that I can write this down and remember. Remember the apples. The thin cotton bed sheet that served as a net. And the smiles of a family who did not sense the coming pain.
5/1/2016
Soulmates and Shortcomings
She sat on the edge of her wooden chair, legs crossed, clutching her mojito glass. This was her favorite table in the restaurant; back left corner, adjacent to the bar and the entrance. She always requested this table. Holding her cocktail close to her mouth, she chewed on the thin black straw and began assessing the crowd. Leather jacket, at ten o’ clock. Long, lean legs with a strong upper body – or are there shoulder pads in that jacket? Do they even make jackets with shoulder pads these days? He’s drinking Jack Daniels – scotch would seem more appropriately rebellious. Dirty blonde, shoulder grazing hair, and a five o’clock shadow. Now he’s putting his hair up into a knot. God, that’s so hot. Well, his manbun is more like boybun; his hair looked way thicker than that when it was down. He probably works for an indie record label, has a recreational cocaine habit, and grunts a lot during sex – very Tarzan like. I could be Jane . . . for about three months. Nah, he’s not it.
She sighed, nibbled her straw to reopen it, and took a long sip from her drink. Her eyes never leaving the crowd within the restaurant. Red beanie and non-prescription Ray Ban readers at two o’clock. Where’s Waldo? Pretty sure I found him reading “Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto.” He’s also drinking coffee, probably black, at ten p.m.. At least he’s reading; he’s probably the moody, educated type. We could go on a few dates, and then I wouldn’t hear from him for six weeks because he flew to London to finish his memoir. When we reunited, there would be some slow motion make-up sex while The Smiths droned on in the background. I bet he’d write a poem about me, maybe even a book of poetry. He’d say my freckles were constellations and I’d find out that he was bisexual and had been having an affair with an older scholar in London – Dorian Gray, much? I am all for sexual freedom, but I cannot and will not be shared. He’ll write a novel about the strong-minded girl who got away; I’ll find the book in the Barnes and Noble discount bin years later. Pass.
She picked one of the lime wedges from her empty glass and began nibbling on the sour fruit. A black business suit entering the restaurant caught her eye. Jet black hair pairs nicely with his suit and tie – if it weren’t for the briefcase he could be a pallbearer or filming a “Men in Black” remake. A little on the short side, but his Italian good looks make up for any shortcomings. He’s probably very strict in the boardroom, and in the bedroom. Christian Grey has nothing on this Italian Stallion. We could go on trips in his private jet; he would fly me to Naples to meet his family. His Italian grandmother would call me “nipotina” and teach me where to buy the highest quality prosciutto in the village. Wine induced make-out sessions would probably turn into wine induced diarrhea and his short temper would get the best of him. I would say “arrivederci” to my Italian Stallion, but his grandmother and I would stay in touch. Not a lifelong romance.
She sighed and winced as she bit into an obnoxiously sour part of her lime. She tossed the fruit back into her glass and sipped the watery remnants of her beverage. While slurping, an older man a few tables over caught her eye. His face was very red and sweaty; he was using the cloth napkin as a handkerchief. There were two place settings at his table. For a business acquaintance? No, probably his twenty-something girlfriend. He’s obviously married, or recently divorced. Nerves explain the sweat, and high blood pressure explains the red face. He’ll order a steak and she’ll order a salad. He’ll call her his little –
“Cameron?”
“Huh? What?” She snapped out of her daydream.
“Were you even listening to my story?”
“Oh, yeah, of course I was. Keep going, honey.” She finally acknowledged the big blue eyes that were sitting across from her.
“Anyway, I was telling Dennis if he could negotiate a better mortgage, we’d probably go ahead and buy the house; the little yellow one on Pine Street – the one with the fence you liked?”
“Definitely liked that fence, it just needed repainting. I’m not sold on the neighborhood yet though, it just doesn-“
“Cameron, we’ve looked at so many houses. You can’t be so picky. I’m starting to think you just don’t want to move in with me,” he smirked.
She forced a smile and began biting a piece of skin on her thumb. She looked at his perfectly groomed hair, clean-shaven face, and simple gray sweater. For three years, he had sported the same haircut and he only wore that sweater on their date nights. Could you even trust your twenty-one year old self’s judgment when getting into a relationship? Things were fine in college – we’d go out once a month to the pizza joint on 6th. Every Friday night we’d run to Redbox and rent the latest horror flick while getting tipsy on boxed wine. His mom loved me – she let me help out with Thanksgiving meal prep; cooking was a big deal to her. It was essentially like being blessed by the butter god herself, Paula Deen. The Redbox runs have all but ceased thanks to late nights at the office; and he has developed lactose intolerance so pizza is out of the question. His mother became a vegan after becoming a diehard Ellen fan, and we’ve been munching on Tofurky ever since. Is this monogamy or purgatory? Cameron reached for her empty glass and he grabbed her hand, stroking it gently.
“Look, I know this is a big change, but we’re ready. We’re in love, and this is the next step for us.” His big blue eyes beamed up at her. “Where is our server? Let’s get you another drink.” He released her hand and grabbed her glass.
“Thanks,” she said, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear. As he began scanning the room for their waiter, she resumed scanning the room for someone else.
She sighed, nibbled her straw to reopen it, and took a long sip from her drink. Her eyes never leaving the crowd within the restaurant. Red beanie and non-prescription Ray Ban readers at two o’clock. Where’s Waldo? Pretty sure I found him reading “Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto.” He’s also drinking coffee, probably black, at ten p.m.. At least he’s reading; he’s probably the moody, educated type. We could go on a few dates, and then I wouldn’t hear from him for six weeks because he flew to London to finish his memoir. When we reunited, there would be some slow motion make-up sex while The Smiths droned on in the background. I bet he’d write a poem about me, maybe even a book of poetry. He’d say my freckles were constellations and I’d find out that he was bisexual and had been having an affair with an older scholar in London – Dorian Gray, much? I am all for sexual freedom, but I cannot and will not be shared. He’ll write a novel about the strong-minded girl who got away; I’ll find the book in the Barnes and Noble discount bin years later. Pass.
She picked one of the lime wedges from her empty glass and began nibbling on the sour fruit. A black business suit entering the restaurant caught her eye. Jet black hair pairs nicely with his suit and tie – if it weren’t for the briefcase he could be a pallbearer or filming a “Men in Black” remake. A little on the short side, but his Italian good looks make up for any shortcomings. He’s probably very strict in the boardroom, and in the bedroom. Christian Grey has nothing on this Italian Stallion. We could go on trips in his private jet; he would fly me to Naples to meet his family. His Italian grandmother would call me “nipotina” and teach me where to buy the highest quality prosciutto in the village. Wine induced make-out sessions would probably turn into wine induced diarrhea and his short temper would get the best of him. I would say “arrivederci” to my Italian Stallion, but his grandmother and I would stay in touch. Not a lifelong romance.
She sighed and winced as she bit into an obnoxiously sour part of her lime. She tossed the fruit back into her glass and sipped the watery remnants of her beverage. While slurping, an older man a few tables over caught her eye. His face was very red and sweaty; he was using the cloth napkin as a handkerchief. There were two place settings at his table. For a business acquaintance? No, probably his twenty-something girlfriend. He’s obviously married, or recently divorced. Nerves explain the sweat, and high blood pressure explains the red face. He’ll order a steak and she’ll order a salad. He’ll call her his little –
“Cameron?”
“Huh? What?” She snapped out of her daydream.
“Were you even listening to my story?”
“Oh, yeah, of course I was. Keep going, honey.” She finally acknowledged the big blue eyes that were sitting across from her.
“Anyway, I was telling Dennis if he could negotiate a better mortgage, we’d probably go ahead and buy the house; the little yellow one on Pine Street – the one with the fence you liked?”
“Definitely liked that fence, it just needed repainting. I’m not sold on the neighborhood yet though, it just doesn-“
“Cameron, we’ve looked at so many houses. You can’t be so picky. I’m starting to think you just don’t want to move in with me,” he smirked.
She forced a smile and began biting a piece of skin on her thumb. She looked at his perfectly groomed hair, clean-shaven face, and simple gray sweater. For three years, he had sported the same haircut and he only wore that sweater on their date nights. Could you even trust your twenty-one year old self’s judgment when getting into a relationship? Things were fine in college – we’d go out once a month to the pizza joint on 6th. Every Friday night we’d run to Redbox and rent the latest horror flick while getting tipsy on boxed wine. His mom loved me – she let me help out with Thanksgiving meal prep; cooking was a big deal to her. It was essentially like being blessed by the butter god herself, Paula Deen. The Redbox runs have all but ceased thanks to late nights at the office; and he has developed lactose intolerance so pizza is out of the question. His mother became a vegan after becoming a diehard Ellen fan, and we’ve been munching on Tofurky ever since. Is this monogamy or purgatory? Cameron reached for her empty glass and he grabbed her hand, stroking it gently.
“Look, I know this is a big change, but we’re ready. We’re in love, and this is the next step for us.” His big blue eyes beamed up at her. “Where is our server? Let’s get you another drink.” He released her hand and grabbed her glass.
“Thanks,” she said, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear. As he began scanning the room for their waiter, she resumed scanning the room for someone else.
3/2/2016
Appalachian Sun
The sight of the Appalachian sun rising over the Blue Ridge Mountains is like the first sip of southern sweet tea; it illuminates all of your sensory organs and awakens something dormant within you. The change, however, is a leisurely one. Time moves slower in the South. Words taste sweeter; so they linger in the mouth and roll off the tongue like thick molasses. The sun takes its time kissing each azure peak and gently makes its way into the hollers and through the pines. The warmth rushes over you, just as the sugar finds its way into your veins, dilating capillaries and expanding palates.
The sun rises in the east, which is fitting; southerners are early risers. Neighbors start their tractors with the first light of dawn. Marge, at the old country store, sells fried bologna biscuits to mill workers, lawyers and everyone in-between. Pat and Bess swap stories while squeezing loaves of bread at the discount bakery. Jim loads feed from the local Farm Supply into his Carolina blue pickup. In the summer, that Appalachian sun will swelt you faster than a preacher can say “fire and damnation.” In the fall, the mountains turn a truer gold than the sun itself. Winter brings life to a peaceful standstill; glossy white clings precariously to tree limbs and power lines. The sweet aroma of honeysuck brings back the bees and the thawing comfort of spring. That Appalachian sunrise awakens everyone’s inner southerner; the person who stops to appreciate the wonder of life, and never orders unsweet tea.
The sun rises in the east, which is fitting; southerners are early risers. Neighbors start their tractors with the first light of dawn. Marge, at the old country store, sells fried bologna biscuits to mill workers, lawyers and everyone in-between. Pat and Bess swap stories while squeezing loaves of bread at the discount bakery. Jim loads feed from the local Farm Supply into his Carolina blue pickup. In the summer, that Appalachian sun will swelt you faster than a preacher can say “fire and damnation.” In the fall, the mountains turn a truer gold than the sun itself. Winter brings life to a peaceful standstill; glossy white clings precariously to tree limbs and power lines. The sweet aroma of honeysuck brings back the bees and the thawing comfort of spring. That Appalachian sunrise awakens everyone’s inner southerner; the person who stops to appreciate the wonder of life, and never orders unsweet tea.
3/20/2014
Park Bench
They sat there. Trying to be friendly. Everything that once was so familiar felt foreign. Her arms felt odd crossed over her chest; they should be stroking his arm, searching for a hand to hold. Her body felt so cold, numb, sitting so far from him, instead of tucking herself neatly under his shoulder. Conversation seemed like a waste of lips. Their lips were made to communicate the palpable passion and love that resided within them.
She sat there, staring at the man she once knew better than she knew herself. How can time make two people strangers? Everything about the moment felt off. Something was out of place. Could they have possibly outgrown one another? Is time so powerful that it can completely change a human being? Or was it still there? Somewhere. Buried deep within them. That love. That trust. Perhaps the warped reality before them was simply that, warped, twisted, wrong. Nothing in that moment felt right because it wasn't. They were not made to sit casually on a park bench, fourteen inches apart. They were made to throw the earth off it's axis with a single kiss. They were made to love with all the fervor of every lover who had come before them. They were made to be one. One soul, two bodies. Not two strangers on a single park bench.
She searched his face for any sign that he had realized the truth along with her. But she searched in vain. His face, that of a marble statue; unbelievably lifelike, yet devoid of any true life. She had done it. She had missed her window. Time does not change people. People simply change over time. He, who was once so open, had now shut himself off completely from her. His action was justifiable; she had broken his heart. When it happened though, she had no way of knowing that her heart would be the greatest casualty. So she sat on that bench. Inches away from the only person she had ever loved, and could ever love. Friendly, yet not familiar. Ghosts haunting a bench with the story that could have, but never will be.
She sat there, staring at the man she once knew better than she knew herself. How can time make two people strangers? Everything about the moment felt off. Something was out of place. Could they have possibly outgrown one another? Is time so powerful that it can completely change a human being? Or was it still there? Somewhere. Buried deep within them. That love. That trust. Perhaps the warped reality before them was simply that, warped, twisted, wrong. Nothing in that moment felt right because it wasn't. They were not made to sit casually on a park bench, fourteen inches apart. They were made to throw the earth off it's axis with a single kiss. They were made to love with all the fervor of every lover who had come before them. They were made to be one. One soul, two bodies. Not two strangers on a single park bench.
She searched his face for any sign that he had realized the truth along with her. But she searched in vain. His face, that of a marble statue; unbelievably lifelike, yet devoid of any true life. She had done it. She had missed her window. Time does not change people. People simply change over time. He, who was once so open, had now shut himself off completely from her. His action was justifiable; she had broken his heart. When it happened though, she had no way of knowing that her heart would be the greatest casualty. So she sat on that bench. Inches away from the only person she had ever loved, and could ever love. Friendly, yet not familiar. Ghosts haunting a bench with the story that could have, but never will be.
12/15/2013
Treading Water
I feel like I'm treading water. Just making it through each day uses every bit of energy I can muster. I go to bed every night, terrified. I can't sleep because I'm afraid that when I wake up, I'm going to finally run out of energy. I won't be able to keep my head above the water. I can no longer fight the current that constantly tries to drag me under.
Each day is a battle between fight and fear. I just wish this ocean in my soul could transform itself into a placid lake. I want nothing more than to be able to lay my head upon the water and float, effortlessly on my back. Face towards the sun. All of my troubles beneath me. Sinking to the bottom of this endless lake. Never to be seen again.
Each day is a battle between fight and fear. I just wish this ocean in my soul could transform itself into a placid lake. I want nothing more than to be able to lay my head upon the water and float, effortlessly on my back. Face towards the sun. All of my troubles beneath me. Sinking to the bottom of this endless lake. Never to be seen again.
9/17/2013
Love and War
After spending just one day together, the day before he left to go to away to training camp, and eventually the war in Iraq, he stopped her cold. While walking back to his truck, he said, "I can feel you getting closer to me." She knew he didn't mean in proximity.
"Well, is that a bad thing?" she implored.
"I don't know." He said it staring blankly ahead. She always thought that he'd say three words to her one day, three words that would change everything for them, those just weren't the three words she expected. The walk back to his truck was silent. She hoisted herself up into the cartoonishly large truck's passenger seat. They drove in silence for a while; both just staring at the long road ahead. "I just. . . I just don't know what's going to happen, y'know?"
"None of us do. It's called life: The Great Uncertain." She tried to make a small joke and seem nonchalant. That was her special gift. She could have a hurricane raging inside her soul, and a tidal wave ready to rip through her eyelids, but on the surface, she could look like she was on vacation in a tropical paradise.
"I'm serious" he uttered, still looking straight ahead.
"So am I! None of us know where we're going to be tomorr - "
"I know exactly where I'm going to be tomorrow."
"Not what I meant. Look, the thing is. . ."
"No, you look!" he interrupted her, this time with what appeared to be boiling rage. "Tomorrow I'm going to be shipped off to training camp, and held hostage there for a while. They're going to tell me all about the five thousand different ways I can be killed, or maimed enough to wish I had been killed over there. Then, with that ray of sunshine in my life, they're going to drop me off in the middle of the desert, with a sniper rifle and a prayer. Then they get to watch me try to survive for a year. If I do, great! They can just ship me off somewhere else before I can even get my boots off back home. What kind of life is that? Not for me, I signed up for this shit, but for you. You didn't sign up for it, but here you are trying to!" he slammed on the breaks, through the truck into park and stopped dead in the middle of the old dirt road. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly she could see his knuckles turn white. He then loosened his grip on the wheel and turned to look at her. She could see the tidal wave that he had been holding back swell behind his eyes. He cupped her face in his hands, and pulled it closer to his. "I can't put you through this." She could taste every word he said and feel his breath on her lips as he spoke. "I know you'd wait on me. I know you'd put up with all this bullshit, but I don't want you to. You deserve so much better than that. Why do you think I've never asked you out on a real date? I mean, damn, we've known each other for over three years. Do you think I just never wanted to date you? I did. I really did. I do. But I know you deserve so much more than me. The only consistency in life is the fact that it's inconsistent and then there's you. You've always been there for me. When I'm having a terrible day, I know I can call you and you'll make me laugh within five seconds. You're like no one I've ever known before. You're smart, so smart. You make me feel like a fucking idiot, which would usually piss me off, but I love it, because you keep me on my toes. You're beautiful. Not beautiful in that you hoist your tits up to heaven and wear enough makeup to scare a circus clown, you're really beautiful. Your smile makes me smile instantly. And you're sexy. Damn, you fucking turned me on at a Thanksgiving dinner once, with a text message! Who does that? You're everything I've ever wanted and could ever need, but I'm not what you need. You need someone who can be there for you. Physically and emotionally. I can't. Definitely not right now, but maybe never. I don't want to leave you tomorrow and leave you with a 'maybe'. I couldn't do that to you." He just stared into her eyes.
She didn't know what to say back. He was still holding her face in his hands. She already thought she loved him, but what he just said confirmed that she did. Still at a loss for words, she did the only thing she could think to do. She kissed him. She expected him to pull away, but he didn't. It was like one of those dramatic kisses you'd see in a movie, but different. In movies, they always say that time stands still when you kiss the person you love. In reality, time jumps into hyper-drive. Every second that passed meant she was that much closer to having to give him up. She had spent the last three years imagining what it would be like to kiss him. Now she knew, and it was such a bittersweet revelation. While they kissed, and time flew by around them, galaxies were being consumed by black holes, Pluto was trying to decide if it felt like being a planet today, trees were producing oxygen, people were producing carbon dioxide, blood was pumping through all of her vital organs, and she swore that she could feel her soul escaping her body.
She had no idea how long they kissed. Eventually they broke the seal on their lips and pulled away from each other, just enough to look into one another's eyes. The tidal waves had now broken down both of their defenses. Tears rolled down both of their cheeks. "What the fuck is wrong with us?" she quietly laughed.
"I have no idea."
"I love you." she whispered while wiping a tear from her cheek.
"I love you, too." he said, running his index finger over her opposite cheek to remove a tear.
"We'll get through this. You know I'm stubborn. I won't let anything come between me and what - who - I want!" He knew she meant it. She was extremely stubborn; a trait he loved to hate about her.
"Are you sure?"
"Don't be stupid."
He laughed. "Damn, I can't believe I have to leave tomorrow. Things are just starting to get good. I finally got you to kiss me."
"Oh my god, I hate you." she tried to hide her smile as she said it.
"Sure you do. . ." He pulled her closer and kissed her once more. He put the truck back into drive and they were headed down a familiar dirt road into uncharted territory.
"Well, is that a bad thing?" she implored.
"I don't know." He said it staring blankly ahead. She always thought that he'd say three words to her one day, three words that would change everything for them, those just weren't the three words she expected. The walk back to his truck was silent. She hoisted herself up into the cartoonishly large truck's passenger seat. They drove in silence for a while; both just staring at the long road ahead. "I just. . . I just don't know what's going to happen, y'know?"
"None of us do. It's called life: The Great Uncertain." She tried to make a small joke and seem nonchalant. That was her special gift. She could have a hurricane raging inside her soul, and a tidal wave ready to rip through her eyelids, but on the surface, she could look like she was on vacation in a tropical paradise.
"I'm serious" he uttered, still looking straight ahead.
"So am I! None of us know where we're going to be tomorr - "
"I know exactly where I'm going to be tomorrow."
"Not what I meant. Look, the thing is. . ."
"No, you look!" he interrupted her, this time with what appeared to be boiling rage. "Tomorrow I'm going to be shipped off to training camp, and held hostage there for a while. They're going to tell me all about the five thousand different ways I can be killed, or maimed enough to wish I had been killed over there. Then, with that ray of sunshine in my life, they're going to drop me off in the middle of the desert, with a sniper rifle and a prayer. Then they get to watch me try to survive for a year. If I do, great! They can just ship me off somewhere else before I can even get my boots off back home. What kind of life is that? Not for me, I signed up for this shit, but for you. You didn't sign up for it, but here you are trying to!" he slammed on the breaks, through the truck into park and stopped dead in the middle of the old dirt road. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly she could see his knuckles turn white. He then loosened his grip on the wheel and turned to look at her. She could see the tidal wave that he had been holding back swell behind his eyes. He cupped her face in his hands, and pulled it closer to his. "I can't put you through this." She could taste every word he said and feel his breath on her lips as he spoke. "I know you'd wait on me. I know you'd put up with all this bullshit, but I don't want you to. You deserve so much better than that. Why do you think I've never asked you out on a real date? I mean, damn, we've known each other for over three years. Do you think I just never wanted to date you? I did. I really did. I do. But I know you deserve so much more than me. The only consistency in life is the fact that it's inconsistent and then there's you. You've always been there for me. When I'm having a terrible day, I know I can call you and you'll make me laugh within five seconds. You're like no one I've ever known before. You're smart, so smart. You make me feel like a fucking idiot, which would usually piss me off, but I love it, because you keep me on my toes. You're beautiful. Not beautiful in that you hoist your tits up to heaven and wear enough makeup to scare a circus clown, you're really beautiful. Your smile makes me smile instantly. And you're sexy. Damn, you fucking turned me on at a Thanksgiving dinner once, with a text message! Who does that? You're everything I've ever wanted and could ever need, but I'm not what you need. You need someone who can be there for you. Physically and emotionally. I can't. Definitely not right now, but maybe never. I don't want to leave you tomorrow and leave you with a 'maybe'. I couldn't do that to you." He just stared into her eyes.
She didn't know what to say back. He was still holding her face in his hands. She already thought she loved him, but what he just said confirmed that she did. Still at a loss for words, she did the only thing she could think to do. She kissed him. She expected him to pull away, but he didn't. It was like one of those dramatic kisses you'd see in a movie, but different. In movies, they always say that time stands still when you kiss the person you love. In reality, time jumps into hyper-drive. Every second that passed meant she was that much closer to having to give him up. She had spent the last three years imagining what it would be like to kiss him. Now she knew, and it was such a bittersweet revelation. While they kissed, and time flew by around them, galaxies were being consumed by black holes, Pluto was trying to decide if it felt like being a planet today, trees were producing oxygen, people were producing carbon dioxide, blood was pumping through all of her vital organs, and she swore that she could feel her soul escaping her body.
She had no idea how long they kissed. Eventually they broke the seal on their lips and pulled away from each other, just enough to look into one another's eyes. The tidal waves had now broken down both of their defenses. Tears rolled down both of their cheeks. "What the fuck is wrong with us?" she quietly laughed.
"I have no idea."
"I love you." she whispered while wiping a tear from her cheek.
"I love you, too." he said, running his index finger over her opposite cheek to remove a tear.
"We'll get through this. You know I'm stubborn. I won't let anything come between me and what - who - I want!" He knew she meant it. She was extremely stubborn; a trait he loved to hate about her.
"Are you sure?"
"Don't be stupid."
He laughed. "Damn, I can't believe I have to leave tomorrow. Things are just starting to get good. I finally got you to kiss me."
"Oh my god, I hate you." she tried to hide her smile as she said it.
"Sure you do. . ." He pulled her closer and kissed her once more. He put the truck back into drive and they were headed down a familiar dirt road into uncharted territory.
