companion guilt

Your naked eyes swam with trust
as the purr left your throat. 
And my dark wings blotted out of the sun 
while my hand was forced to destroy your plague.
I sing songs in your memory 
to fill up the silence during the day. 
Why did you have to be so little?

boyish in nature: open letter

Anne - 

It was lovely talking to you on the phone. ...I find your voice incredibly soothing. There is something of a mother's tone in it, and I feel as though I could wrap myself like a blanket and be safe, while listening to you speak. I can hear, very clearly, your heart's intentions, and they are good. 

 I hope you are sleeping soundly. 

I wanted to write a little, because writing allows me to think more logically. I tend to stop and start too much when I speak, and it sometimes frightens me to be met with such direct questions... especially ones I have no easy answers for (I do appreciate your questions, clarifications, and advice, though. Please don't stop). I just wanted to explain a little about my current situation, since you were asking and it will help to clear my head to see it laid out. 

A little (blunt, but short) history: 

I met William in a creative writing class in Houston, TX and he is the first man I have ever loved. This was around the time I was starting to "bloom" as my friends said, and began thinking about relationships and sex in general. I started realizing I might be attracted to women around this time, but did not give it much thought and sought after William. Due to money and mental health issues, I lived with my parents at the time, who expressed their hatred of him instantly, on account of his family being Catholic. When they found out he was an Atheist, I was forbidden to see him any more. I still did of course. 8 months later, he was given a job offer in California. He took it, and moved out there. 10 months later, after much heart-ache, I had finished my associate's degree and saved up barely enough to move out there with him. Once I moved in however, all of his talk of getting married fell by the wayside. I attributed this to his history of being cheated on by previous girlfriends, and let the matter drop. 

Before I continue, I'd like to say that he has made me the happiest I've ever been. We are best friends, and are surviving very well out here all by ourselves. Our personalities mesh wonderfully. We never argue. Which is why I feel all the guiltier, because I feel that if I were just a "normal" female, I wouldn't be ruining this ideal relationship. 

Our problems stem from me, I believe. The catalyst. I thought I could be happy in a monogamous relationship, but as much as I try to stamp the urge down, I keep fantasizing about being with a woman. This was fine for a long time, and William and I used to sit in parks or in restaurants and make a game out of who could find the best pair of breasts. It was always really funny, it filled me with a sense of pride when I was the only girlfriend invited to "guy's nights".

 One night, in a drunken conversation, he told me it was unfair that he'd had so many partners, and I only had him. He wanted me to go out and have the "college" experience and figure out my own sexuality. I took him up on his offer and found a girl who was willing. We got as far as starting to make out before I panicked and told her I couldn't do it anymore. When I told him of what happened, he acted dejected and said he didn't want me seeing anyone anymore. It was confusing, but I let the matter drop. After that first taste, the urge to be with a woman was starting to grow. I tried bringing it up to him, twice over the course of a year, and each time ended poorly. Not in a yelling match, but in cold shoulders and resentment. So I have learned to not speak of it in front of him. Between this, my lowered libido, and my tomboyishness... he is not as happy as he could be. I cut my hair off recently and started asserting more masculine traits, it really seemed to bother him and he stopped joking around with me so much. I can see that my actions are starting to make him sad, but neither do I want to stop. I want to be boyish in nature, and I want a woman... and I feel ... at the same time... that I am being selfish... but also that these requests and actions are not all that unreasonable. Especially when one of them was originally laid down by himself. 

When I told him that I was feeling more and more guyish, his face dropped. He told me I needed to figure out what I wanted, and that until then, our relationship is on hold. 

So now I'm in a heady mess of questions I don't know how to solve. The way I see it, there are 2 sides of the problem. 

Do I really want to be a full-time guy, and am just sticking with a female presentation for society's sake, because its comfortable? Because I'm afraid? If I never take on my full "identity" will I regret it? Am I staying with him because I'm scared of the alternative?

And on the flipside... 

Am I over-fantasizing about being a guy, as a means to escape my underlying problems (ie. PTSD? anxiety? depression)? Is my relationship just not what I need right now, and this is something easy to blame it on? Am I capable of that kind of sabotage? If I were to break up and live alone, am I capable of surviving on my own? 

I am having trouble deciding and so in the meantime, I'm currently taking an androgynous route. I hide my chest with sports bras, cut my hair short, and neglect make-up (something not very commonplace in my routine to begin with). After years of theatre and studying people, my mannerisms are masculine. The double-takes and stares I get on occasion amuse me to no end. It's comfortable here, and my boyfriend seems to be fine with it for the time being. I may stay here and explore for some time. I just.... don't know how else to proceed at the moment because I'm so scared of losing him and ruining everything. 

But in the end, I never know if I actually WILL have an answer. I don't know if I can be married, which is the end result, with him. But I don't know if I can be a full-time man. I fantasize about having my own place, smoking a pipe, inviting friends over, chasing after women, being dashing, suave, sociable, and hospitable. I want to wear suits, and be called a sir. But I don't want to completely throw away my feminine side. It's fun to pull that out of the closet once in a while, and wear make-up, and flirt with abandon... I am confusing to myself. I just don't know what I want. 

Well, no. I take that back. I do know what I want. 

I want my dual nature to be acceptable. I want to be able to switch from being a she to he and then back again without a blink of the eye. I want society to respect me. I want my boyfriend to understand that I am not abandoning him. I want to live at 221 B Baker street and solve mysteries... 

I'm sorry. I know this is quite a lot and starting to get silly. When I began this, I only expected this letter to be a paragraph. My, how its grown. 

Humor aside, I'm scared. Genuinely scared. I'm feeling very dark at the moment. I will openly admit that I feel like self-harming, but I won't. Not tonight. I just hate that feeling. I have an ice pack on the back of the neck to help reduce the craving (I read a medical paper on this phenomenon once, and it's actually fairly effective). I am sorry if any of this at any time is triggering for you. That is the last thing I want. 

I appreciate our conversations more than I can express. You are so beautiful, and I hope I can help in any way. 

I just wish I knew who I was... 

What character I am meant to be...

With much love and confusion, 

Rook. 

absent without leave

She disentangled herself from the couch over a period of several hours.

There was definitely something awake, or at least, starting to wake up, that was controlling this process. The better part of her brain was still curled into what felt like a cat-size configuration, vaguely content to be so far away from any augmented reality. There were no hard-edges; only a fog in every which direction. A softness with no discernible depth. But soon the lines started to appear and become more apparent. What used to be miles of coastline suddenly became her legs. Her arms she folded like Japanese cranes under her chin, cradling her head. Her chin digging into the elbow crook felt hard as granite. Nothing this dense existed mere moments ago.

                Another one was watching over her. Her hair tucked behind her ears, dark eyes following the curvature of the sleeping face. Neither moved, only breathed in synchronization. At length, a voice whispered, “Why didn’t you come sooner?”

                Which startled her. Her eyes opened at last to find the figure gone; the figure had never been there. She moved at last, placing clammy palms across her warm forehead: an effort that weighed more than it should have. The sluggish tongue stirred in its sunless chamber, saliva thick. Her first clear thought was one of cold water.

                The coffee table was littered with wrappers, and bottles. She had realized of course that she’d taken too much again, but the thought was of no real consequence, and carried not a single nuance of guilt or shame. Struggling to focus on the task at hand, she lurched forward and stood erect, spine straightened almost in defiance. A few stumbles later, and she was at the kitchen sink, drinking greedily from the faucet amidst the small parish of dirty dishes.

                She finished with a groan, and lowered her body until she sat on the cheap linoleum floor.

                Where is my head today? she asked herself.

                Decidedly AWOL, came the reply.

                She smiled.

                It took a few more breaths before fighting to get back onto her feet once more. She found her cell-phone had somehow climbed into her hand, and blearily scrolled through the messages. There was a text left from the dark-eyed lovely, asking for a drinking companion Thursday night.

This is a new development.

Wait, what day is it now?  

The world was starting to come through now, in more frequent and piercing gaps. Worked last night. Customer screamed at me for not being able to accept her check. Not my fault. Told me I was worthless.  That kind of aggression warrants some kind of therapy.

                The bathroom mirror loomed into view, and she caught sight of herself, short curly hair frizzed about her face and ears. She quickly smoothed it down, mouth and brows starting to quirk into a frown.

                The face was alright, she decided, pausing to lift her jaw slightly. It could pass. The neck was lithe and slightly feminine, but do-able with a collared shirt. It was the breasts that didn’t work.

                She bent to put on a sports bra. That was better, but still not optimal. How lovely it must be to feel the rain on one’s chest, she thought sadly. To bare shoulders and back in the summertime sun.

                Without a warrant from the police.

                She pulled on a tight tank-top to further hide the female form, followed by a pair of black rimmed glasses. The face was starting to look… better. More comfortable at least.

               

                 She paused and pinched the bridge of her nose, to ward off the first pinpricks of a head-ache as more slices of the world came filtering in. Zig-zagged nicks on my left forearm. Not deep. Only recreational.

                Is that whole bottle of vodka empty?

                God.

                And then, as she shouldered on her favorite blazer: Colly’s dead.

               

                It was the final piece to reality. The apartment walls felt hard and cold around her, everything solid once more. Her chest hurt again, just as it did when she first heard the voice on the other end of the line. She froze, half- dressed, eyes dropped to the floor, mind now completely clear and drawing a sterile blank.

               Radio static.

   There was nothing to do. Nothing she could do.

                After a couple seconds, her eyes shifted to the cell phone still in her hand. In some altered state, she’d left a note for herself: a reminder and an alarm to go to work. While reading, the headache blazed into full volume, and a tremor shot through her spine.

                This is only the start, said part of her mind. Can’t work like this.

                Don’t remind me, she snapped.

                She sat on the edge of the bed, in her men’s jeans and men’s haircut, bare feet tucked into unlaced men’s converse. Her mind began to race as the shivering intensified. The world dropped onto her head like a hailstorm.

Need to buy a toothbrush.

When is Colly’s funeral?

Should I bring flowers?

            Supposed to set up a doctor appointment yesterday.

            Should call today.

            Do I have enough paint to finish that canvas?

           Did Michelangelo have a last name? How come I don’t know it?

           Is my cell phone battery lithium-ion or lithium-polymer?

          Is the naming of the ilium (bone) and the ileum (small intestine) have any linguistic relation to each other?

               

                Each thought dropped harder and faster, as her heart picked up speed as well. Soon all she was left with was question marks thundering against the inside of her cranium. With a sigh between gritted teeth, she pulled the vial from the breast pocket of her blazer and swallowed a new tab. It turned to dust under her tongue, and filled her mouth with the taste of plastic.

                But as she stood and grabbed her keys, the headache backed down, acquiescing.  Heart rate and shivering vanished. Dense thoughts dissipated, and the world became a little softer around the edges.

                AWOL is a good place to be, she decided. 

can't go home

The sunlight slides down the wall, and now it pauses, just before it puddles onto the carpet. The apartment is warm. And motionless. The wall stares back at me until I actually see through it. The room disappears in a late-afternoon haze and I step into a memory of incense and wood smoke;  of dust on my tongue and leaves in my hair. Of joyful dancing, and my sister’s hand clasped in my mine. She younger than me, but her hands are so much larger. She wears a large steel ring on her pinky. Her nails are bitten off, receding into her cuticles. There is dirt on her elbow and across her shoulder. But she doesn’t care. I can hear bagpipes and the beat of a drum – a bodhran ticking away, puncturing the evening air. I can hear voices, conversations filtered through years of looking back. I turn my head trying to make out the words.

                In the memory, my heart is light and free. I go running through cobble-stone streets, my sister hastening after.

                In the late afternoon, the sunshine flushes pink, and disappears into the floor.

My heart feels ill. There is no smoke and incense to comfort it.  

fireworks

I called taunts over my shoulder at him, prancing through the crowd, and ducking easily in and out of people’s paths in the darkening evening. Some stopped and stepped back, startled, and to those, I gave a little half-bow before continuing on my way.

It’s not every day that you get to be a hobbit at the nation’s largest renaissance festival. Coming to this place dressed as Frodo Baggins was a little like showing up at Disney Land in full Mickey Mouse costume. After a full day of revelry,  I had become accustomed to the attention I received: people stared, giggled, or even went so far as to ask for a hug or photo. Some touched my red curly locks and asked if it was real. Some jokingly tried to steal the One Ring hanging down in front of my vest, which would cause me to jump back and whip out Sting, my trusty orc-fighting sword… at which point my level of dedicated fan-girl-ness would usually scare them off. Some actually believed me to be male, which made me feel accomplished (the tight sports bra and careful study of boyish movements only heightened my acting) ;  however, the look on their faces was priceless when my space-cowboy boyfriend came sailing into the conversation just to grab my ass.

I had said boyfriend by the hand now, and together we made it up a slope to the stone arches of the jousting arena.  My bare feet were covered in dirt and the grass felt good to my soles. It had become completely dark, and in the shadows of the pillars, I slid my pack off my shoulders so I could stretch out my arms and casually arch one around the space cowboy’s neck.

I waited with bated breath as drums began. Peeking over the heads of the crowd, I could see the jousting field lit up, flames licking across designs spiraled in the dirt. The heady music grew; the people yelled, screamed, bellowed; and a lone man danced across the grounds with a torch. With slow-motion grace he bent to light a cannon.

For a split second, nothing happened.

And then a thunder blast sent us reeling back, as great plumes of fire and color blossomed in the night sky. Gem-colored rockets shrieked as gleefully as its onlookers whilst spiraling into impossibly chaotic showers.

But while the magic roared on, I found my gaze wandering to his face, alternately lit between the explosions – thrown into darkness in one moment, then washed with a daylight shade of gold. His glasses caught each firework and gleamed; I could hardly make out his eyes behind them, but  I knew from the quirk at his mouth that he was reminiscing. And that it was a happy memory. Perhaps a childhood one. I nuzzled my face into his neck, breaking his reverie, and he hugged me tightly, fingers trailing through my hair.

I no longer watched the gunpowder show; all of my attention had shifted to him. Thoughts of our imminent separation began to seep into my excitement, and I clung to him, burying my face in his chest. Soon the emotion was overwhelming, not knowing when I would get to watch fireworks with him again, or hold him, or brush hair out of his face, and tears leaked down the length of my nose, seeping into his jacket. It was with a great strength of will that I lifted my head, caught his eye, and brushed my lips over his. He kissed me long, cupping my face in his hands, and I loved the taste of his breath. Even with my eyes closed, firework patterns danced across my eyelids in dazzling colors.

Before long the spell ended. We broke apart as the show came to a booming close, and the crowd jostled us forward. In silence, we held hands as we walked under the dark sky. I carried a strange mix of sorrow and joy that felt heavier than the pack across my shoulders. And I knew that this moment – this geek-infested renaissance fair – would hold so many memories for years to come. I clutched the thought to my heart like a medieval amulet. 

the mojave

The sun beat down through the windows, and burned our skin. Our lips cracked and peeled; our voices were hoarse. And still the road stretched on, hardly deviating from its straight and narrow west-ward course. We had no cowboy instincts to guide us in this country. This was not a movie. We only knew to continue to plunge on into the sand, hardly straying, just like the asphalt path forged before us. Our eyes grew tired. Our thoughts turned homeward.  It was eternity.

Purgatory.

Hell.

Everything came to a point at the horizon, and this we stared at for days. The flat arc of the desert  was a fresh novelty at the start, as we  marveled at the lack of advertisements, houses, and people. But eventually even the other cars on the road drifted away and we were left alone in the wasteland, with no other soul to speak to except each other. Soon the center point, where the road stretched like a string of grey taffy, disappeared into a dizzying flash of water. As the sun grew hotter, the mirage spread out towards us, until I started to feel we would hear the refreshing whoosh of our tires splashing onto the shore. But always, the pale lake shrunk away from us, mile after mile, and the hot water bottles left in my car did not soothe our cracked mouths.

stuttering starts

I oftentimes wake after long hours of talking to people I haven’t seen for what feels like decades, in my lily-white dreams. Sometimes it really is a decade; sometimes they are dead and I am remembering happier times. But when they are alive and well, and I feel fondly towards them, in my half-awake state, I wish to continue the conversation I had with them, sitting to their right on a bar stool, sipping at my rum between sentences. With my eyes still closed, my body still warm under the covers, I think well of the world, and want nothing more than to see these people again, and talk idly, as we did between classes in high school, or out in the fields of the midwest. But in the true waking hours, as I sit with my tea in front of my computer, I do not know if they feel the same towards me. There is a strange social wall that appears when you move or go off to college; if you don’t call your friends once a week or write them letters... they are suddenly not your friends. They disappear off the edge of the earth. They are living their own lives, just as I should be living mine, but there are so many moments when I think of our old camaraderie, and I sincerely, sorely miss the jokes, the banter, and the pranks. But we are older now. Older than I realize, I think. And such a time is not to come again.  I linger over the keyboard, hesitating to even say hello. It should not be so difficult to reach out to a friend. But after many years... it is.