Angst (28 page)

“Victoria, may I speak to you in the hall for a moment,” he
finally says, turning around to face me. My heart starts to thud.
Shit.
It’s
as if I’ve played some kind of prank or broken the rules with a flagrant
disregard for my grade or anyone’s feelings.
Time to go to the principal’s
office little girl
, I think, getting up from my chair to follow him into
the hall.

He turns to face me, concern on his face, his little round
glasses glinting in the art spotlight in the hallway.

“Yes?” I ask, my palms suddenly sweaty, feeling trapped here
talking to him. This is every day for me now.
My every day hell on earth.
Created for me, customized for me, by who else: myself.
How charming it is.

“I’m concerned, Victoria, you’ve been missing class lately,
not concentrating on what you’re doing and it shows. I know something must be
going on and I don’t need to know what it is but I want you to know that your
grade is suffering.”

I nod,
sweet
, my grade is suffering. I need another
stressor to add to my growing pile. I need that pile to topple over on my head
so that I’ll have even more reason to kill myself. I smile grimly.

“Yes, things are going on in my personal life. I’m sorry. I’ll
try to do better,” I mumble, trying to hold back my ever present damning
cascade of tears.

“Victoria, there are times in class when I know you are
really in the zone, creating things that are sad and tragic yet somehow
beautiful at the same time. You have talent. Your self-portrait took
creativity, a leap in the right direction. It is certainly not what I asked
for, but I’m not sure I can ding you for doing something that is the essence of
art, taking a chance.”

“Thank you, Sir,” I say, not sure what else to say.

“If you need to go to counseling or something you know we
have resources here on campus?”

I nod again. It seems this is all I’m capable of. My
constant high level of anxiety is just under the surface, just waiting for the
worst moment to pop up, hence me leaving class early or not coming at all. I’m
terrified of failure. Of wasting money on college, of admitting that my problem
is getting bigger than I can handle alone.

“Listen, I’m not giving you a D in this class, but I can’t
give you an A either. Try to up your attendance, please,” he finishes and
motions that we should head back into the classroom. I breathe a sigh of
relief.
Back to the critique group. Every day feels like a critique group.

When I walk out of class at 8:00 pm I make a detour to the
bathroom and pull my ever present water bottle from my backpack. The disguised
vodka is a necessity now whenever I feel tense, as long as my supply holds out.
I wish it was a sure thing but I know my work connection who buys me alcohol is
not something that will last, plus I can’t ask him too much without it getting
really annoying. But for now I’m on easy street, staring into the mirror at
dead blood shot eyes surrounded by dark smoldering eye make-up, red lips and
dark hair. I take a huge swig and then another until the world starts to feel a
little less solid and a lot more fuzzy.

For some reason I’m looking good right now, strung out, some
kind of dangerous, self-destructive sex-slut just a month off her 10 day
antibiotics for her fucking awesome STD, drowning her fears with her confidence
juice. I look away, not wanting to stare into my own eyes in the mirror because
I know what I’ll see. Hatred, self-hatred of what I’ve become, of what I’ve let
happen to me. Drinking at the wrong times, drinking to drown out the panic. I
take another swill and smile to myself, more of a grimace than a smile and then
throw the bottle into my bag, pop a piece of gum in my mouth and am out the
door and down the narrow hallways of the PCAC, heading toward the back and the
path that curves up toward the Library.

God damn…I’m on my way down, sliding toward breakdown and
on my way up at the same time, some kind of clinging, desperate, frenzy
happiness.

 As I turn a corner, I’m suddenly startled in the hallway by
a tall dark figure in a hooded sweatshirt, jeans and a baseball hat, leaning
casually against the wall, hands in pockets. My heart starts to slam, red hot
as I recognize him, even in the dim light, but I pretend that I don’t, passing
him by with a tiny sideways glance, his eyes on mine.

“Hi,” I say, as I pass, turning my gaze straight ahead.

“Hi, sexy,” he says in a low voice, reaching out at the last
moment to grab my fingers and pull me up against his hard chest. And then
before I know what’s happening, he’s kissing me, his warm firm mouth pressed
against mine, one arm curved around my neck, the other around my waist and I
kiss him back, pushing him up against the wall, threading my fingers through
his hair.

This is how we are together. He surprises me in the halls,
other places on campus, waiting for me to get out of class so we can go back to
his place and fool around. And I do the same, showing up at the library or the
dining hall, pulling him away from whatever he’s working on. It’s irresistible,
electric. We can’t seem to stop.

I’m pulling on his clothes now, sliding my hands up
underneath his sweatshirt and the t-shirt underneath, feeling the surprising
warmth of his skin, the hard planes. He’s got his warm hands up under my coat
and shirt, finally finding bare skin, alive and throbbing. He’s leaning against
the wall when he pulls my leg up, his thigh rubbing against me and I can’t
stand it anymore. I need him, now. I need this in more ways than one. He
threads his fingers through mine, pushing away from the wall, backing me into
it with a thud, mouth still on mine, urgent and hot.

I finally break away and pull him down the hall, laughing
and he follows. Then he’s pulling my hand again hard, stopping me dead, his
arms around me, hands questing, mouth insistent for another kiss and I don’t
even bother to try to stop him, but kiss him back, his mouth tasting of
wintergreen. My heart is hammering when he puts his hands on either side of my
face, pulling away for a moment to smile, eyes shining and then kissing me
again, deliberately.

He smiles and pulls me down the hallway and now we’re
running out the door and up the hill near Ham Smith, out of breath, finally
stopping when we get to the front of the building, acting sedate and calm,
stifling laughter, glancing around to see if there is anyone out and about. And
there are other students here and there under street lamps, walking to Holloway
and the MUB and to academic buildings and so now we’re laughing, hands clasped
and walking fast, as fast as we can go without breaking into a full on run
until finally we reach his place and are inside.

He kicks the door shut and pulls off his sweatshirt and
t-shirt, his hands tugging on my coat and long sleeved tee. This is how it is. Hot,
urgent, almost illicit feeling, a secret rendezvous. And I am happy. The
happiest I have been in a long time. Wanted, smiling, able to finally live out
all my fantasies with someone I feel safe with.

This happiness against the stark contrast of my misery is
strange, hard to believe, almost unreal. I’m living two lives, one happy,
fulfilled, beautiful even, the other on the verge of suicide.
Dark and light.
My life.

He’s kissing me now, pulling me into his room and we have
sex in every position we can think of. Standing up, bent over his bed, cowgirl
style, positions that have no name as far as we know, everything. And I can’t
stop smiling or kissing him and he can’t keep his hands to himself and we’re
just lost in each other. He is perfect and I keep thinking the words,
soul
mate
. The person who makes me happiest in all the world, my new best
friend.

Going to college is damn stressful. I’m trying to focus on
writing a paper for my Earth History class in my parents’ office. I stare at
the computer screen in front of me, the cursor blinking away on the blank page,
willing the words to come to my fingertips. Nothing is happening. Things are
not going well. I’m stressing myself out and getting worried that I’m doing
badly in my classes. I can’t stop thinking that I’m a failure, in more ways
than one, school, my personal life, panic, guys, everything that matters to me.

My phone on the desk next to me vibrates and it’s Hannah,
wanting to know if I’d like to go to the mall with her and Kayla. I’m
immediately nervous about the trip, but tell Hannah that I’d like to go, if
just to get away from my paper for a few hours, plus I want to look at some
clothes at the mall. I drive to campus, my nerves harassing and threatening me
the entire way and find the girls waiting. I climb out of my car reluctantly
because the first person I spot is Stacia.
Really? Damn
.

“Hey, Victoria,” Hannah says as I approach the group, my
stomach suddenly clenching into a knotted fist. Hannah hadn’t said anything
about Stacia being here.
Shit
…Kayla probably invited her to come with
us. I groan inside. This cannot be happening to me. As soon as I walk over, I
can see they’ve already been in conversation, clearly just waiting for me.

“I’ll drive,” says Stacia walking toward her brand new Honda
Civic, her blonde ponytail bouncing, wearing a pleated skirt and sweater.
Oh
hell no.

“I’ll just drive myself,” I say under my breath to Hannah. I
cannot ride with Stacia.
I can’t.
I can’t get in the car with these
girls. It’s an impossibility.

“No, Victoria, you have to come with us!” says Stacia,
somehow overhearing me from several feet away. “We can all fit in my car,
there’s no point in taking another,” she argues, pouting.

“Well I have to go somewhere afterward and wanted to be
closer to my next destination,” I lie, racking my brain to come up with any
reason why I can’t ride with them. I hadn’t anticipated this happening and now
I’m being forced to hurry up and lie to cover up my crazy.

“I can’t see how that can be true. Come on, we’ll all go
together, it will be more fun that way,” Stacia argues back and I feel myself
being propelled forward by invisible social hands that expect that I don’t have
an insanity problem and that all “normal” people would of course ride in the
same car if going to the same destination. I can’t really argue this.
What
can I say?

“Well my mom wanted me to pick something up from the grocery
store on my way back,” I state, grasping at straws now, beginning to full on
tremble.
Stacia is getting the better of me. What can I do?

“Just get it later, silly. I have no idea why you’re being
difficult. I swear I’m a good driver,” she says with a smile and Hannah and
Kayla seem game to go, having walked over and are all standing outside the car.
I’m the only one standing a few feet away, feeling the tug of normal people to
do normal things.

“Ok, fine,” I say, giving in to pressure, out of excuses,
nothing left to say. I cannot believe I’m doing this. I walk toward the car and
as soon as my hand touches the handle, I can feel that this is a mistake. But
there is no going back now. I pull open the heavy door, my muscles weak and
quivering and sit down on the brand new seat. The car still smells new.

I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m shrieking inside as we
drive out of the parking lot. My anxiety is spiking to a new level and I feel
like roaring “stop the car, let me out!” but I know that if I do, it will seem
fuckin weird and no one will understand why I’m freaking out.

Now that the panic sequence has started I’m not able to stop
it. I start going through the paces, my mind reeling, my pulse racing with
fear, my stomach roiling, nasty acid creeping up my esophagus.
Sick. Sick. Crazy.
Crazy.
Here I am, trapped
, I think, trying desperately to
concentrate on the conversation going on around me. I feel trapped by social
expectations, trapped because I know that these girls will not understand my
problem. What if I want them to bring me back to my car later before the trip
is over? They will never listen to me. I am Stacia’s prisoner.
The bitch.

Minutes tick by slowly as I sit there, wishing that I wasn’t
physically imprisoned in this car. There’s no way to get out, no way to stop
the car without asking Stacia and I really really don’t want to do that. But
the thought of being out of control of my own body is completely overwhelming,
totally choking me. No one ever thinks this way, no one else would sit here and
think about the fact that, physically, they were at someone else’s mercy.
Here
I am flying down the highway, locked inside a tin can, unable to get out
without telling someone, unable to be sick without embarrassment, unable to
control myself. I’m completely undone inside, completely insane and not one
person will understand, not one person will know what’s going on with me.

I’m trying to hide it, I have to. I have no other choice,
not unless I want them to know. Mental defects are not something that people
understand or sympathize with. They are damning.
God dammit, why did I put
myself in this situation willingly?
My stomach flip flops, gathering itself
up, tight as a knot and being drawn tighter still by the moment. I’m going to
be sick. I’m going to embarrass myself by being sick, my own body betraying my
craziness, revealing my weakness. I can’t let it happen.
I can’t lose it. I
must not.
The girls are chatting around me and I feel like I’m on an island
all alone, shipwrecked inside my own mind, watching everyone else move farther
and farther away. Pretty soon they will notice me out here by myself if I don’t
say something soon.

But the more I think, the more I fight it, the sicker I
feel. Hannah is already looking at me strangely because I’ve been sitting here
quietly not really joining in on the conversation. She can tell something is
wrong, but not what. I give her a tight smile, wringing my hands in my lap. The
situation seems unreal, out of touch, yet physically throbbing, as my heart
slams like the car door when I first got in, except it keeps happening, again
and again.
I am trapped! I can’t breathe!
There is no air in this car. And
I can feel the hot acid burning up my throat, almost ready to explode.
I
need to escape!