Yucky Stuff

Her mouth tastes of salt. She relinquishes her pillow, gets up off her bed, and looks in the mirror. She doesn't hate what she sees. That's not the problem, it's not what she looks like. Of course, her appearance by no means improves matters. Her red-rimmed eyes are saggy grey underneath, and her lips, redder than usual, remind her of two thin slices of sashimi on a grey plate. Her hair falls limply, dead, as all hair is, but with hers it seems more obvious.

This is oddly reassuring to her, her appearance. Having slept in till twelve, neither showered nor left the house, and spent all day in front of a screen, she looks as would be expected. If anyone still awake were to see her, nothing would seem suspicious. Nothing would hint at the violent emotion that wracked her body just a few moments earlier.

Why is it, she asked herself as she creaked the door open, and turned off the lamp, why is it that a few select moments in ones life, a few moments of pain among years of ordinariness, could refuse to end, could be played in ones mind again and again, at the slightest twinge?

It is baffling, she thought as she tread slowly toward that comforting screen, how one crying spell isn't enough for the needy subconscious to overcome a few verbal jabs carelessly flung her way years ago. Never mind who it was, even if the perpetrator was one of the closest to her. She was sick of the baggage, sick of the queasy, wrenching feeling it gave her. Enough was enough!

It is often said that adversity makes one stronger, which would explain why victims of rape, genocide, starvation, and other terrible, terrible things don't break down and cry every time they appear on Oprah. But in her case, she felt it had beaten her down over the years, made her weaker, more susceptible. There were still times when she would come to the verge of tears in a public setting, when she had paralyzing moments of self doubt over the simplest phone call.

She did not know why she felt the way she did, but part of her knew that somehow, identifying what was wrong would save her from at least some expensive therapy later in life.

As she sank into the uncomfortable wooden chair, she heaved a sigh. Then she opened her slightly dusty computer, and wiped the screensaver clean.