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Indelible

And looking up, he said: I see men as it were trees, walking.

By J. W. KennellyPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
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I have the worst habit of playing things over and over again in my mind; the same memory, shifted and permuted and warped with each recall as I try to think about what I might have done differently. How my life may have turned out if I had said something a little more smooth, stopped fiddling with my jacket zipper, or even just reached out to hold her. Ruminating. Apparently this is called ruminating. The reason this is bad is because you can never change the past. Do you know that? I don’t know if I fully do.

It’s actually sort of funny how it ended. It was brisk, sitting outside in the cold, a little warmer than freezing, and the wind just whipped around in circles in the back of this little courtyard. By the time we eventually left, I felt that chill in my bones, where my legs did not walk so well, and I stumbled on a basement hatch right outside the bar. You remember that sort of chill, when even shivering feels like it might be a waste of time. And the lighting. This faded illumination from the rainbow string lights, and how these dozens of little lights changed the color of her eyes. Frankly it left me unsure if I have ever really seen her before that evening.

And we both basically knew what was coming. We both knew we would never work out. In hindsight that is so easy to say. We both knew. But in truth, I had no idea what she was thinking at the time. We had been talking about absolutely nothing, small talk, usual things like work and roommates and filler. And then finally the pressure got to me, the guilt maybe, so out of nowhere I said, “Hey, Allie, I just wanted to sort of talk about… talk about our relationship, I guess. We haven’t really talked about it before. Obviously, you’re a really intelligent, kind, and beautiful girl, but I am just not sure we’re so compatible. For the long term.”

Her eyes widened a bit, she smiled a little then stopped herself. She gave nothing away. If you want to condense four months of seeing each other into the one reason why I knew we would never work, it would be that. Neither of us gave much away. We did not really know much about each other, about our inner thoughts or how we felt about anything of substance. And, it turns out, you cannot have much of a relationship where nobody shares anything about themselves.

I continued on a little too quickly. I had rehearsed it before, and now it came out faster than I liked, too well prepared and too much like vomit. I could not stop. “I just wanted to let you know because I don’t really know where you stand.”

“No, I completely agree. We would never work long term.” She stopped for a second and I stared at her mouth. She had very nice lips. “Did you ever think this was serious?”

And I did not know the answer to that. In the beginning, I think I did want things to work out. I mean, maybe I wanted it to work even if I did not have much hope for it. I tried to keep my face calm, but something about her casual indifference stung. Frankly, I did not fully expect it. I planned for the worst -- you know, maybe tears, maybe she would toss a drink at me, but I did not expect for her to throw my own sentiment right back in my face and just agree with me. Because when she did that, it just revealed what I should have always known: I am not always in control when my relationships fail.

But then we started to actually talk about it, to talk honestly with each other for the first time. It felt refreshing. I had never seen her like this before. And that was the funny part of it, right? We had to end because we could not be honest. And now, because we were ending, we all of a sudden had carte blanche for brutal honesty. No more dancing around how we felt, why we failed. We just laid it all out on the table.

When I strolled back outside to the patio, two ridiculous drinks filled my hands. They served them in these big schooner glasses, which probably also helped move along the conversation. We must have been there for more than an hour and a half at this point. She picked up right where we left off, saying “I’ve been having a hard few weeks. I don’t know. That’s probably why we haven’t really seen each other for a while.”

“How do you mean?” I asked, though I had spent enough time with her over the last few months to guess.

“Well I started going to a psychiatrist recently.”

“Oh. There’s nothing wrong with that. I’ve been trying to go recently myself, but it’s actually pretty hard,” I said with a light laugh. “They’re all full or too expensive or they never get back to me. I want to see if I can get an Adderall prescription, I feel like it would really improve my life.”

“Trust me, it won’t.”

“I mean, maybe it hasn’t done that for you, but I think it might help me out. Maybe if I can focus more, then I could get more done at work, or pick up some hobbies and find out what I like to do.”

“It’s probably not even the real issue for you. There’s probably more going on, if you’re really feeling that way,” she said with confidence. And she convinced me. I think part of me always underestimated her. I tried not to, but I could not really help it. Almost as if to spite me, she consistently defied my expectations that evening, proved herself better than what I thought.

“What made you decide to see someone this time?”

“I started journaling actually. Something about seeing my own thoughts reflected back at made me realize how bad they were,” Allie said. I felt like I was starting to read her better. The way a perfunctory smile would fail to reach her eyes when she really meant to do the opposite of smile. “I think I have always sort of felt this way, but I never really dealt with it much before. My brother always had more issues, more of my parents’ attention, so I figured I just had to deal with it because I was never that bad. I felt like I needed to succeed, to prove that I was different.”

“I mean you’re pretty successful on your own. And, if you feel like you’re still not happy, then obviously, talking to someone about that is the right move. How has that been going?” I asked.

“Okay. I got started on Prozac, which I think is the only reason I’ve actually been able to keep going. I’ve been to therapists before, but they never really worked out for me.”

I paused, not sure how to continue. But I felt like I needed to say something. “Oh?” I wondered aloud, waiting for her to continue.

“I saw one with my family who said I was one of the most emotionally closed off people she’s ever met. Which might be true, I don’t know. But I saw one more recently, and she sort of just stopped mid conversation and stared at me. Like instead of saying anything, she just really looked at me. And I just broke down crying for some reason. So she referred me to a psychiatrist. And now here we are.”

“But have you actually started to feel any better?”

“Yeah, a bit. I guess things are starting to feel a little less meaningless.”

I knew it was wrong but I still laughed a little bit. “Isn’t that how things always are though?”

The funniest part of the story by far, though, is wondering whether you’re falling in love right as the relationship withers away. It felt like I had only seen her blurry, without glasses, only rough shapes and colors and nothing of note. But now, I saw her clearly, as she really was, no longer distorted. Clarity. And I did not know what to do with that.

They made the last call. We had talked almost until the closing, a few hours since we started and far more time than I had meant to stay. We laughed together at something about the bar as we walked out, but I cannot remember what the joke was.

And then there we were, standing outside the bar, at a crossroads of both the highway and our relationship. We had agreed to stay friends, whatever that meant. But we did not explicitly break up, like I had assumed we would.

“So, then, where does this put us?” I asked.

“I’m not really sure yet, to be honest.”

“Well, do you want to hang out?” Her mask disguised her face even more than usual, but I watched her eyebrows go up in surprise.

“You mean, should we go back to my place together?”

“Yeah, is that weird?”

“Maybe it is right now. I don’t know. Maybe next time,” she said without any real conviction.

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense. I’ll see you later then. Text me when you get home though.” I leaned in to hug her, and I held her for a few moments. Maybe a moment too long.

Walking home in the dark always lets my mind wander. I kept thinking about what she said, what I said back. But alone, with nobody to respond to, nobody to be polite to, my mind could whirl freely in any direction; each thought was like a gossamer thread, trailing in every direction and splitting countless times. I could follow any thread I wanted, pulling on each until I wove something greater or unravelled it all entirely. And only by pulling and pulling could I really see what the end result would look like. I knew I had enough in my life that I should be happy, and conversely, I had very little to make me unhappy.

I do not want for money. I got my bonus yesterday, a little over twenty grand after taxes. I do not need anything else, and I do not spend frivolously, so it just sits there and stares holes back at me. Money will not change my life; that is probably not the issue. My job is even pretty stimulating too. It keeps me thinking, occupied, which is supposedly important as well. I get paid well to sit in an office and think. I should have no reason to feel sad.

I have friends. I never know what constitutes a lot of friends, but I believe I do well enough, and I have close friends. And I had girlfriends, all of whom were great, all of whom I no longer speak to. Even then, those ended on my terms, my own foolhardiness. Really, I try to tick the boxes that make people happy. But even with most of the boxes full, it just falls short.

So I did take her advice. I did buy a journal, this little black moleskine. I like writing these thoughts down in it, so I can stare at the reflection of my own brain. Just like she said. And maybe I cannot have her again. But I can have what she said, what she gave to me. Maybe it will help. Maybe then I will realize I have enough. I should be happy.

breakups
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J. W. Kennelly

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