I spent 2 hours searching for those damn blue books last week. I needed them for reading journals for 9A and
9B and the school had none and then Northeastern said I needed some special form. Like I was trying to buy plutonium
or something. And so I just gave up.
Later that day I stopped at Staples. They had them. No special form needed. They had them in the teacher aisle.
Only they were the kind of 2nd graders. Good enough.
Staples. On my way to Mom and Mark’s for Pesach. You were supposed to come. I was going to ask my mom if you could.
You had wanted to. It was a precursor to asking if you could come to the wedding.
I told you about the wedding. I told you about it the day I modeled the pink dress. The same day I had told my
mom you were black. “Did you also tell her I look like a boy?” you asked. “No - I didn’t even mean to tell her
you were black.” It just came up when we were talking about the night club fires and I had said you were in Chicago
when the Chicago one happened and I had been worried. “But that club was mostly people of color,” she rebutted.
“She is a woman of color, Mom.” And then the look. That one that says that she’s thinking 9000 things that she’s
not saying. “You can’t help who you fall for, Mom.” And still the look.
Can’t help who you fall for.
I modeled that dress for you - shoes and purse and all. It was too big. I still need to get it altered but it has
not left the garment bag in my closet since you left that day. You left angry. You usually left angry.
I wish I could be angry. I wish I could stay angry at you. It would make it all so much easier. But you are sick
and so how can I be? My friends say I have a right to be. You said I didn’t. And I still believe you over them.
You had told me to.
She is a woman of color, mom. And then the look. The look that said nothing and everything all at once.
“If only she knew,” I thought and still think, “who you are.” Only I don’t know who you are and you don’t know
who you are.
Anger. I am angry with the people who did this to you. You - butchie black dyke from the streets of Chicago. I
quoted back the Peacework article I had researched. You didn’t know I had read it. “Just a girl from the streets
of Chicago,” I said.
“I don’t usually say girl, but I used it in that piece because -”
“I know why you used it. I get it. Power,” I interrupted.
“No one’s ever gotten that.” Or so you said. And that’s another thing I try to research. Truth or manipulation?
Or both? Because you know my need to get people and how empowered I felt when I got you. When I got that you were
sad and tormented and that your sadness lives in your stomach and in the sunken spot under your eyes. Like that
I knew you were a liar before I had any grounds for suspicion. And you liked that. And I liked that. Because few
people have taken the time to get you. They follow you and they believe you but getting you involves questioning
you and no one dares do that. Because of the unpredictability of the response. The wrath. The unpredictability.
The wrath. I wish I could have a wrath like that. To throw back at you all the pain and torment you so callously
shot into my life.
Shooting. “It’s not fun to be shot,” you had said during our first night together when I was watching the news.
I didn’t ask you about that then. Questions. I knew you were scared of questions. I knew that already.
I should be angry with you but instead I am angry with myself and angry with the people who enable you like I did
and angrier still at the fuckers who did this to you. Who forced you to rewire your own brain. And instead of being
angry with them you get angry with those who dare to ask you questions. Maybe I should have shot you. Maybe then
you wouldn’t have been so scared of me.
I need to be angry at something and all your brainwashing and all your pain and all your illness makes it impossible
for me to be angry at you. And so instead I cry. I cry while I’m searching for blue books in the asbestos filled
attic at school and in Staples in the teacher’s aisle and at my mom and Mark’s on Pesach and when I look at the
garment bag in my closet.
Fuck you.
Each night at bedtime I pray for you. I pray for you and for her.
I close my eyes, those eyes you looked into so deeply and passionately, those eyes I never closed when I kissed
you, and the tears stream from my cheeks to my ears, the ears you kissed when I turned my head.
I pray above all for you to be well. I pray that your illness will subside and that you will not forever live in
torment and pain and conflict and war.
I pray that the cells in your body will forget or learn to forgive those memories that still plague you. The cells
in your bullet wound on your arm or in your belly or in your liver or under your eyes or in your shoulder blades
or between your legs. Those cells remember, even when you do not. They crave tenderness. They want validation.
And they cannot get that from anyone but you.
I pray that you will validate your past and stop running from it. Because then you are doomed to repeat it, as
you have until now.
I pray for you to be angry. Angry with those who hurt you or enable you instead of with those who love you or seek
to understand you.
I pray for you to stop scaring people. For you to relinquish the wrath. The wrath that has pushed away so many
and scared the others into silence and submission.
I pray for you to heal all of the swirling, acrobatic parts of your red, black and indigo spirit. For you to find
peach and periwinkle tranquility. For you to let Indigo finally have a dance. Let her out when she tries to escape
the poison of your liver. Do not smack her back down there to suffocate, to suffocate amidst the icy, arctic emotional
landscapes of the poison in your belly. She deserves to dance.
I pray for you to get it. To get how lies and deceit hurt those you yearn to be close to. To get that lies will
not protect anyone, and hiding will protect us even less.
I pray for you to realize that Truth is not an Ugly Old Woman. She is a beautiful liberator. She gives us energy
to devote to other things, like building honest and meaningful and sustainable relationships with those we love.
I pray that you will learn to give and to receive. That you will have the energy to. That you will have the self
love to. That you will have the dancing spirit to.
I pray that you will learn that love is more than an emotion. Love is a behavior, an expression. A continuous expression.
Love is not words and love is not poetry and love does not hurt. Love does not drain us of energy. Love is energizing.
And reciprocal. And loyal. And comforting. And balanced.
I pray that you will learn to love. I pray that the scared girl inside of you lets you do that. Because she was
so fucked with and fucked over and she is scared to love. She has rewired herself for protection.
I pray that you will one day see spirits and believe in prayers.
I pray that my prayers are not in vain.
I pray that my tears each night help you heal so that you can emerge and no longer remain trapped in a body turned
poisonous and a rewired brain and a stifled, suffocating Indigo spirit.
Hear my prayer. Feel my tears. So that I can stop crying and you can start.
I don't like this prompt. I don't like this prompt at all.
Instead I am looking over at the food. Because food is my new obsession. My new one and my old one, both at the
same time.
I am eating again. I am eating again and that is good. Or it should be good. Because my body is no longer shrinking
and my mind is no longer regressing and my spirit is no longer running away from me and a lot of that must have
to do with the fact that I eat at least one whole meal a day. Because now I am hungry. And that's a good thing.
it's a good thing. Because I should want to eat when I am hungry and I should be hungry.
And not eating is not okay and of course I know that.
For three months I barely ate. Off and on and off and on. And unlike so many others with this same condition I
was completely aware of it. Yes it snuck up on me like it did in college when I survived off of cucumbers and Diet
Cokes and saltines but I saw it coming. The boulder racing down the hill.
And there is so much power in it. In not eating. It's like beating the system. Consciously and unconsciously willing
my body not to be hungry. And then forcing food down and bragging about that - bragging about it to my friends
and my therapist and myself. Because I kept it down even when I wasn't hungry because I knew I should be eating
because my mind worked better when I did.
The day I stopped talking to her I was able to eat again. And that amazes me. And the connection amazes me. Power.
I needed power over something and power over food was familiar and comforting and reassuring. And power over the
shape and size of my crumbling body and it didn't matter that it was false power because that was better than no
power at all.
And she didn't get that and she was the one person I thought would get it and who I thought I needed to get it.
That eating disorders aren't really about eating or about body image or beauty. That they are about power and control.
Or the illusion of power and control.
Illusions of power and control.
Power and control I relinquished for no sane reason.
So I would watch her eat the spinach and tomato and goat cheese pasta I had cooked or the Greek salad I had bought
for myself and as I spoon-fed it to her my body filled up because watching her eat was even better than eating
it myself because it was nurturing and that is what I do best and worst, both at the same time.
I didn't want to eat it any more. Eat it and spoil the moment of watching her eat it.
And later it was withheld as punishment for stupid mistakes. Stupid, repetitive mistakes. Punishment, like the
scratching and the knives and the hitting, all of which also stopped the day I stopped talking to her.
Food is a drug for others. Pacifying them. She was like a drug. My therapist and I figured that out. After talking
about the food things. Bad for me but good for me. A reprieve in an otherwise crazy day. Contact. The nourishment
and fuel that filled my stomach and heart and soul and spirit instead of food.
And then that was gone and it was withdrawal. Withdrawal from her. Bad and good, both at the same time. Chronic
sadness with no reprieve, the reprieve that only fueled the addiction. Cycles.
Like cycles of power and control and the cycles are dissipating and the sadness remains. Sane sadness. Healthy
sadness. But sadness just the same.
And mostly sadness for her because despite what they all say I know she doesn't mean to do this and that she wants
it all to be different but fear is powerful and rewired minds - rewired minds that are rewired because of fear
- are powerful only they feel like they are not and so power must be usurped. And I gave mine willingly, and sometimes
knowingly. Because I saw that she needed it because that was the fuel, like the goat cheese pasta or Greek salad
that I should have eaten but that I also gave up willingly and knowingly.
Will. Knowing.
I will. I know. I will know. I will myself to know. I know I will.
Because this can't happen again.
And now again I am stuck. Because my mind is elsewhere. My mind that I have reclaimed is elsewhere, maybe stuck
in my classroom with the letter to Sandy's mom and grandma who blamed me for Sandy failing. It was personal, they
said. Sandy did not deserve to fail. And even today Sandy refused to do work and I wonder about that. About how
clueless the mom and grandma can be that she is playing them off each other and that she is so confused and so
lost and so angry and so she is lashing out, finding power and control somewhere. And apparently I am an easy target.
Gently.
Gently.
Gently.
Gently now. Ease back into it. Into the life you had before. Only a sadder more informed less naïve version
of it.
The drum inside your brain. That was my favorite email. About how much you loved me and needed me and missed me.
Is the drum still beating?
Is it beating after everything that has happened? After the lies and the tears and the lies and the observations?
Observe how you are. Or you will repeat this.
And I will repeat this.
Repeating.
Repeating.
Repeating. Repeating the grease stained apologies. Slippery. They don’t stay for long. Soon it all starts again.
And then the apologies are lost amidst chaos and confusion and sickness and madness.
Greasy swirls of gentle madness.
Celebrating the madness. Celebrating and reveling in the madness, like you reveled in me, like you said you did.
Like the drum inside your brain.
And this prompt makes me write like you.
And doves are peaceful and gentle and I want to be a dove.
And to fly.
To fly away into whispers, like whispers in purple pillow talks with you, like you said. Whispers in my ear before
you left and I was left with only my own whispers and drums in my brain.
And my appetite was gone. And I began to vanish. To disappear so that maybe you would come find me. The drum in
my brain would beat and you would listen for the sound and fly away to find me.
To find my former self. My former life. My former sweetness. Sweet caverns of my brain, you said.
You looked for me there. In the caverns of my brain. But unlike you I don’t live in my brain. You never thought
to look for me in my center, in my spirit.
Like water. The water I drank in bed with you. Always dehydrated. Dehydrated for no reason. Dehydrated from exasperation.
Finished. I want to be finished of this. Of this unfinished story. Of gentle drums and sweet caverns and vanishing
doves.
Plenty of them. Plenty of unfinished stories and unfinished caverns yet to be explored.
Exploring.
Exploring tin hearts. Searching for keys to tin hearts. You never thought to look for me in my heart either.
If you had, you would have found that it is filled with butterflies. Butterflies and doves and sweet dreams. But
they would have all flown away from you in fear. In fear of vanishing in your presence.
Of you intervening in the work they are trying to do in my heart.
My heart’s drum. Not the drum in your brain but the drum in my heart. My heart still beating. Beating against glass.
Broken glass. Love cut with quartz, just like you said. Not gentle. Somewhat sweet.
Sweet miracles. Miraculous healing. Healing to the beat of drums in brains and hearts. Repeating. Repeating the
beat so it can heal. Swirls of sweet caverns and healing and nerves of tin beating against hearts of broken glass.
Cellular memories. Repeating memories.
Observe. Observe the repeating memories. Greasy doves. Doves from a grease slicked oil spill. The oil spill inside
the caverns of the brain and of the heart. Doves that would rather vanish than be stuck in a greasy tin heart.
Needing water. Swirls of water to wash them clean. To wash them clean of grease and blood from broken glass and
swirls and caverns of exasperation.
And I write like you. This prompt makes me write like you. Writing in fragments. Fragments like your brain. The
drum inside your brain. Beating out fragments. Drums from caverns. Not sweet caverns like mine. Greasy caverns.
Quartz cut caverns. Open and split like a pomegranate, just like you said.
Gently now.
CS Lewis: Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping
it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries;
avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket - safe,
dark, motionless, airless - it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.
To love is to be vulnerable.
This is the prompt that was not supposed to be about you. But who else could this be about? Other than you?
Or me?
This is the prompt about you. And about me.
This is the prompt I wish I had before I had you. Or before you had me. Before I gave myself over to you. When
I was still intact and unbroken and safe and unentangled. When vulnerability was not as scary and fatal as it is
now. When love was romantic. A romantic ideal. Scary, but not lethal.
Before love was tied to power. When love was just love. Story book romances and cuddles and sweet whispers and
Mr. Right.
Before I thought I was selfish. Selfish because you said I was selfish. Selfish for clinging to my ideals of storybook
romance and unconditional caring, like the love I gave to you.
The power I gave to you. The powerful love and loving power I selfishly clung to in the past but now handed over
- handed over in an entangled vulnerable ball to you.
This prompt was supposed to be about me. About how I am eating again. Eating is power. Food is power. Energy is
power. Only I don't feel powerful. I say I do. I say I am proud to be eating. Proud to be gaining the weight back.
Proud to be sane. Really I am scared. Now I have to think about me. No more thinking about food. No more thinking
about you. No more control over food to occupy my powerful mind. My loving spirit. Now it's me. My turn.
I wish I had this prompt before you. Before I gave you my power. My body and my mind and my spirit and my power.
And my heart. My heartfelt power.
Our second night together I told you you never seemed vulnerable. And you were silent. And then that was all I
heard about in the next nights together. Or nights we were supposed to spend together. The nights you never came
and my heart became entangled in a ball of vulnerability. I trampled on your vulnerability, you said When I asked
questions. When I asked why I should come over your house, after the second time you didn't show up. Because I
had never felt that kind of penetration. That kind of powerful road to entangled love. My vulnerability lies where
you wake walk, you said. You didn't want me to get hurt. You feared that's where this was heading. You were not
the right friend for me. I should find someone less crazy. And I told you to shut up. I could think for myself.
Make my own decisions. Give my heart over as I chose. I thought that was power. Maintaining power.
Really, that's where I lost it. Fuzzy lines of power and manipulation. Words of love but actions of madness. Irredeemable
madness.
This prompt was the one I was saving for me. To write about something else. To prove I had my power back. Love
is not supposed to be about power. Power over minds and truths and tears and even now it feels like betrayal. I
am betraying you. By writing about you in this way. By writing about you in this way and sharing it with others.
It is selfish. Selfish power. Eating is selfish.
Like when I had to give them your name. In case you tried to join too. And I told them that was betrayal and they
said Remember what she did to you.
What she did to you. Like what they all did to you. How they all took away your power. The power over your body
and your life and your mind. Irredeemable. Irreversible damage.
Damage and betrayal. How I betray you even now.
Even now as I write about how you betrayed me. And how I gave you my power. And your voice is in my head and I
want to lock my head away in that casket too, next to my heart. So that it too cannot be penetrated again by you
or anyone like you or anyone at all. Or by me. Because really I did this to myself. Somehow I needed to. It was
nostalgic. Reminiscent of times of vulnerability and entangled balls of power. Of yelling and screaming and slamming
doors and cars driving away and cars driving back. Of Get the fuck out and running away and getting in trouble
for running away after Get the fuck out. Violations. Violations of vulnerability. Mouths full of soap. Inconsistent
consequences. Consequences for intended violations. Consequences for unintended violations. Safety nowhere. It
was my fault. I was a bad daughter, a bad sister. I should be more loving, less sensitive, less entangled, less
selfish.
It was that all over again. With you. Like it was then. Crazy, entangled, inconsistent, vulnerable, powerless.
Crazy, entangled, inconsistent, vulnerable, powerless - but familiar.
The familiarity of handing it over. Of struggling to hold on but handing it over. No choice in the matter. Like
with Josh and the bra and the camp director and circles of campers and counselors cheering. Like with the police
officer and betrayed vulnerabilities. Like with Leroy. Like with you. Betrayal. Familiar. Safety in familiarity.
Familiar fear. Familiar panic. Familiar actions. Familiar reactions.
Not as fuzzy as I thought.
This prompt was the one I was saving for something else. For someone else. Like I saved myself for so long. For
so long and then handed me over to you. Wrapped and pretty and safely packaged. Safely packaged in layers of trust
and fear and entanglements, easily untangled entanglements so that you could get to me without giving up too much.
And I did this to me. Unlocked those keys myself. Went there myself.
I stepped on the scale on Sunday. No more weight loss. Success. Should be success. Find power in something else.
And then I cried. Tears. Vulnerable tears because the power is back and so you are gone and thinking about me is
not safe. Because I am supposed to be unbreakable. I told you that. That no one could break me.
Stupid. Stupid to tell you that. You love a good challenge.
This is the prompt about me. About me and my power and why I gave it to you and why I don't really want it back.
Because power is entangled in balls of memories and hurt and violations and vulnerabilities and remembering that
and writing about that and thinking about that is betrayal. Selfish betrayal. Betrayed selves.
This is the prompt that's not about you. Or about me. Or about love. Because you and me and love means you and
me and betrayal.
Today in the computer lab Sasha asked me if I had been eating chocolate.
“What?”
“Have you been eating chocolate?” And then she pointed to her forehead.
Sasha, Sasha who is usually so appropriate and quiet and demure. Star of the class Sasha.
“Oh, you mean cuz I’m breaking out? No, I have not been eating chocolate, but thanks for pointing out that I’m
breaking out.”
And she laughed.
And I continued, “Ms. Radack, you look awful. Your face looks gross. Yeah, thanks for pointing that out Sasha.”
And she sank down in her chair, but she smiled.
Maybe she’s learning boundaries.
And that was only moments before it happened. Before, out of nowhere, I smelled her. I smelled her coconut hair
grease mixed with I don’t know what other smell that is her. The smell. Sweet and delusional. And it was coming
from Jessie. And I must have freaked her out. Because she was just trying to show me her poem and Nancy and Melanie
and Keisha were gathered round, too, and I just sat frozen.
Because I hadn’t smelled that smell in over a month and you forget what a smell is until you smell it again. It’s
not like a picture that you can will into seeing again or even a sound that you can hear even when it’s not there.
Noses don’t work that way. Maybe they are further away from your brain. I don’t know, but I hadn’t smelled it in
over a month.
Unless you count last Saturday. Last Saturday when I caved. Last Saturday that was 8 days after the Friday, when
I saw her and hadn’t seen her in over a month.
At the club. And I knew if I got too close and saw her and smelled the coconut hair grease and that other something
else that is her that that would be the end so I tried to avoid her.
I tried to avoid her and just dance with my friends. Because I wasn’t ready. Not yet.
And then she saw me.
“You planning on ignoring me?”
“Yeah, actually I was.” Cool, stay cool. I’m gonna stay cool.
Cringe when she pulls me closer to hear what I’m saying. I can see it in her eyes. Sadness, confusion, anger. Why
am I afraid of her? But I’ve already given up so much power and I can’t say what I am feeling. That I can’t have
her touch me because then I will want it. To smell her hair and bury my face in her stomach and forget all the
hurt. And so I let her think I am angry.
And then the conversation about my writing and then her attempt at an apology. And even an attempt coming from
her is huge, but I was just getting out of it and finding myself after so long and so I said, “You don’t know what
sorry is.”
And then Sarah pulls me away to dance. But now I can’t dance. So Sarah gets my sweater and we head outside. But
Jennifer finds us. Her friend Jennifer. Who I’d not met before that night.
And the yelling and blaming begin and I try to tell her to please go away. To please leave me alone. I don’t want
to talk to her. But she doesn’t go away. And I get meek and small and crawl into what is left of myself. And Sarah
starts to stand up for me as I sit and endure.
“You fucked up my friend. Who do you think you are? You apparently thought there was more to the relationship than
there was. You should see a psychiatrist.”
And from then it is a blur of yelling and my friends and her and Jennifer and I am in my car and then I am out.
And I pull her aside and tell her how much this hurts. But I don’t get mad. I tried to find my assertiveness, even
as I smell the coconut and that other something else. And I tell her she is scaring me. When she raises her hand
makes a fist and pounds it against her other hand. And that makes her even more angry. Because now she thinks I
think she’s going to hit me. That I think she has hit me before. And I try to calm her down and I think I have
and this all feels so rushed right now because there is only 5 minutes left to write and it felt rushed then too.
And then it’s over. I think it’s over. The coconut fades and I try to drive away. But I pull over and let Sarah
drive.
And I cry at my house and once again am left to wrap my brain around what just happened.
And then it’s still a blur, like faded scent memories, because then she is outside and Jennifer is too and there
is yelling and banging and ringing and threats. And again I am someone my friends don’t recognize because then
I threaten them if they go out to stop them. Get involved. Hurt her. Because even from my window I can smell the
coconut and that other something else and even from my window I need to protect her.
And then it’s still a blur, like faded scent memories, because then the police are there and then I don’t recognize
who is outside or how I got outside with mascara running onto my bare feet. And then it’s yelling and handcuffs
and coconut smells fade and traumatic flashbacks take their place and I am not done and this cannot be done like
this.
But writing time is over. And coconut smells along with that other something else are gone with flashing red and
blue lights and handcuffs and threatening phone calls the next day. Gone until 9 days later when I cave and call.
Safe handling.
Safe handling.
Safe handling.
Handle me safely.
Make me safe.
How I tried to make you safe. Even when I was scared and confused and alone and exasperated.
Make her safe, make her safe. Be careful with her. Fragile. So fragile. Maybe if I am safe enough she will make
me safe in all this. Safe with her. Safe with the world. Safe with myself.
So that’s what Saturday was. An attempt to finally feel safe. A call. A phone conversation in circles. Fear, anger,
confusion, betrayal. Not safe. Never safe. Phone calls and talks of hurt and attempts at answers. Never safe.
So I said I didn’t really call to talk. I called to see you and not talk. And you said ok.
And I lied to my friend. Because that’s what addicts do when they don’t feel safe. I lied. I was sick. I needed
to stay home.
And I went rushing over to see you. Rushed. Always rushed. Never safe. You were leaving in a couple hours. Leaving
because you’re no longer safe here. Because of my friends, you say. And I don’t bother to say anything back. It
wouldn’t be safe.
And I bury my head in your lap and except when we are telling jokes and except when you are drinking the grape
soda I bought for you, I cry. I cry in your lap and you drink my grape soda. I put it in a bag with Sesame Street
Band-Aids - a bag of purple and green - your favorite shades. Because somehow I needed you to remember how much
I tried to make you safe.
I cried in your lap. For two hours. And the kissing. And the crying. Safe. Illusions of safety. Because now you
can see my hurt and I don’t have to say it. And you can’t argue with crying. And you never did and you never do.
Because crying is safe. You can’t do it better than me. You can’t cry me in circles until I cave. You sit and let
me cry. And you hold me closer and closer so that I can finally feel safe.
And I tell you that. That that’s all I ever wanted. To be safe in your presence. That I thought you could protect
me as hard as you fought me. That it made me feel less unsafe in the world when you walked by my side.
Illusions of safety. Feels better than no safety at all.
And it all is an illusion. Because your world is illusions.
And I cling to that, to make me feel safe. Cling to the illusions of safety. The fantasy I always wanted. The fantasy
promised to me in safe words. The safety that never felt safe because of unsafe actions. But your words. Those
safe words. “I am here. I have been. You trust me. I know you do. I wanted to hold you until you knew I wasn’t
dangerous.”
And 8 days before the crying in the car was not safe. You were not safe. I was not safe. Safety nowhere. And I
told you that on the phone. That I felt so unsafe. And I needed you to get it.
But you kept talking about betrayal. And I wonder how I could want safety from you. You who are never even safe
in your own head. And when you are it’s just an illusion. Like how the day after the threatening phone calls, which
was two days after the yelling and handcuffs and ranting and madness, the day after you were vulnerable and scared
and hurt and unsafe on the phone, you had convinced yourself you were fine. And you had convinced her too. And
now she is in San Francisco with you. And I fear for the safety of both of you.
Only I don’t. Because if I didn’t get to feel safe I don’t want her safe. And I hate that. Because that is not
me. Wishing unsafety on others.
But I never got my fantasy.
How do you mourn and grieve something you never had?
How do I grieve? How do I grieve the safety I never had with you?
And so I am stuck. And that is not safe.
Stuck reliving a fantasy that never was and never will be. Because your mind is not safe. And neither is mine as
long as I am in contact with you.
And you saw that. Or you say you did. You say that’s why you hurt me so much. To push me away. Because you saw
how unsafe I am with you. And I believe that. Even if it’s an illusion. Because it means you really are my protector.
And I can keep you up on that pedestal. Up on that pedestal where you are safe. And I am safe. Illusions of safety.
Delusional illusions.
Safety nowhere.
Like when you didn’t come when you said you would. And I would wait up all night. And the next day was even more
unsafe because I believed you. When you said you hadn’t known I had wanted you to come. And my own mind and memories
became my own delusions and they were not to be trusted and they were not safe.
Like when you explained away all of the inconsistencies and the red flags.
Like when you left me in bed.
Like when you got angry for no reason. Said I meant to hurt you. Said I made you feel unsafe. The things I said.
The way I touched you. Or didn’t touch you.
Like when you spat out words of betrayal and pain. At me. And I let you. And never spat them back. Because I was
not going to compromise your safety.
Like when you lied about me. Or to me. Only your mind is so unsafe that you really don’t think you lied.
Like when you didn’t answer the phone. Like when you didn’t write back. Power. Unsafe power.
But the words of safety always came later. And they felt so good. They felt so good after all the pain and fear
and in those moments you handled me with care. After leaving me hurt and exasperated and unsafe in my own mind
you handled me with care. Illusions of safety.
I told you that. In the car. In the car when you held me in ways you’d never held me. I told you you could heal
the pain so well because you caused it so well. And that made you sad. But not angry. So I thought maybe you’d
believe it.
I want the fantasy. The safe perfect fantasy you always promised. And I believed. After only a few weeks I believed
it. Because I needed something safe.
I am one of those girls I used to hate. Looking for safety in unsafe places. Clinging to fantasies.
Looking for you to finally handle me with care, like you always promised. Because I wanted to handle you with care
back. Because you are less safe than I was. And still are.
So still I handle you with care.
Whitman’s Sampler.
The first thing I see when I walk into CVS. Or Brooks.
Brooks that is across the street from your house.
Brooks and CVS where I stopped to buy you presents. Purple pinwheels from when you were sick, but wouldn‘t let
me take care of you. Singing silk roses before Valentine’s Day - Valentine’s Day when you didn’t want to plan anything.
Too stressful. Sesame Street Band-Aids from when you agreed to see me again. You agreed to see me even though you
had showed up at my door a week before and threatened me and were dragged away in handcuffs. And so I apologized
to you. Like always. I needed to bring you presents. To prove I wasn’t that mad. So maybe you wouldn’t hate me.
I walked past CVS today on my way to the gym. The same CVS from 4 months ago when I was on my cell phone with you.
I was buying stuff for our date, the date you canceled on the cell phone with me when I was in CVS. You were sick.
I said I would come over anyway. You said you were too busy. I said I would come over anyway. And I did. I brought
massage oil and wine. Presents again. And I massaged you and licked you and kissed you as you wrote your paper.
It was snowing. Hard. It was a bad winter. A really bad winter. And you were distant. And then a phone call and
then you left. I was already drunk. I could not drive. I would stay and wait for you. You had to make a mask for
your performance the next day. I would stay and wait for you. One hour. Two hours. Three hours. Four hours. Listening
to the Tori CD on repeat. “When you gonna make up your mind?” “When you gonna make up your mind?” “When you gonna
make up your mind?” Five hours. I called and called and you did not answer. So I left. I was afraid my car would
be towed because of snow and I left. And you called the next day, but it was not really an apology. You had fallen
asleep at a friend’s waiting for the mask to dry. So I apologized for doubting you. Apologized for being hurt.
Two weeks later I was in Florida and got an email from her. Part of it said that that night you and she found a
hotel room. You were too sick to go anywhere. You could hardly walk. But you were too afraid of hurting me to come
home. I was destroying your health. It said a lot of things. A lot of things. And so I called you. I was impressed
that you called right back. You never call right back. And you said you didn’t want to get in the middle of our
adolescent fighting over you. And you explained away certain fears of mine and questions I had. And I apologized.
She must be doing this for her own gain, we both acknowledged. And God only knows what you then said to her.
I will never know. Never, never know what you’ve said to her or what you say to yourself. To make all of this seem
okay. And that is driving me crazy. Not as crazy as I was with you, but crazy.
Because all that apologizing and all of your truths I allowed myself to believe - so that I didn’t hurt you - so
that you wouldn’t run - so that I could prove myself worthy of you - they all drained me. Drained me of my ability
to perceive things accurately.
You told me early on you were not good for me. I should have believed you. But I was determined not to. Dammit.
I was going to prove myself worthy of you. Prove to everyone and prove to myself that I don’t just always run from
scary situations. That I am not as quick to run and quick to avoid risks as everyone says. And all I proved is
that I am an easy target. Manipulate at will. I gave you a fucking handbook on how to play me. Minimum input. Maximum
output.
You robbed me of my perception of myself.
And I want to grieve that. Grieve that I can no longer see things as they are. I only see them as you would see
them. Or as I wish they could be. So maybe I am still as crazy as I was when I was with you.
And this prompt is still not over and I wish it was because I am sick of it. Just like I am sick of writing about
this. Just like I am sick of this. Of apologizing for my hurts. Of seeing things in ways I don’t want to see them.
In ways I shouldn’t see them. Because those ways are bad for me.
I want my perception back. I want it back.
But you took it with you. And if I had it back you would really be gone and I am in no way ready for that. But
that is just my skewed perception speaking. If I had mine back, I wouldn’t care that you were really gone. It would
be good for me.
Do you see what you have done? Forced me to argue with myself all day?
Today at the gym - the one next to CVS - I had to talk myself out of crying while I was stretching,. Staring out
the window and stretching. Because I saw a police car and then I thought of you. You outside my door. And it was
so real. Not just perception but real. And I saw how insane you were and it frightened me. But it intrigued me.
Both at the same time. And I wanted to just put my arms around you and make you safe. Because they threw handcuffs
on you and when you later argued with them they threatened you and in that moment, that moment when you shouted
at them and yelled at them and your face was crazy and you ranted about being handcuffed, I only wanted to kiss
you. Because I saw how scared you were. How tough you acted but how scared you were. That scared teenager. Unjustly
fucked with. Shot at. Beat. And I just wanted to kiss you.
And so I talked myself out of crying. At the gym. Staring out the window. Next to CVS. Flashbacks. Skewed perceptions.
It’s not fair. That I still want to apologize to you. That I saw your light on last night. You light was on last
night even though you are supposed to be in California. And I wanted to ring your bell and yell at you and then
apologize. Because you always liked me better when I apologized. Or when I brought you gifts. So I was going to
go find you a Cadbury chocolate bar from Brooks across the street and ring your doorbell. And cry. So that those
flashbacks will go away. At the gym. Or at CVS. Or at Brooks across the street.
I already wrote about the gym today. And I don’t want to write about it again. Write about how when I am there
I argue with myself about you and talk myself out of crying. How I think I see you out the window. But then I realize
it is not you.
How can a yoga mat remind me of you? You don’t do yoga.
I first talked with you on the phone when I got back from my yoga center. Less than 6 months ago. In the middle
of the bad winter. The really bad winter. You called and I called back and we talked for hours. Our first phone
conversation. Hours. You were playing Playstation. In Chicago. I was watching figure skating. In my living room.
In my living room. 2 weeks later. 2nd date. Or third. Who knows? Kate was there. Strange. Kate, an ex. She was
there. Like she had been there at River Gods after the Women’s Center the week before. The first time we saw each
other since we talked on the phone. And now Trivial Pursuit. At my house. Like at my house after the party on New
Year’s. She left and you stayed. And I was confused. Now you were back again. It was snowing. Hard. A really bad
winter.
Kate and I talked about yoga. You were perplexed but intrigued.
We played Trivial Pursuit. Kate dropped out. Because you and I were too good. You loved that. That I was as good
as you. And I loved it too.
Kate left. She took a cab home.
"She" kept calling you. I was still confused. But I was learning to ask fewer questions. You loved that
too.
Trivial Pursuit. The next week. At the women’s center. Game night. You were on a different team. And my team won.
And you loved that. At S&S after. You paid. And I loved that.
Games. My poem about Dad and games. I read it to you on my couch. The night of Trivial Pursuit. After Kate left.
It was sarcastic. It was smart. And you loved that.
And I wonder why I need to do this. Relive every moment. There were so few. There were so few moments yet everything
reminds me of you. How is that possible? How can yoga mats remind me of you?
Why do I need to figure this out? When the rational side of me knows I will never figure it out. It doesn’t make
sense. I should find my own answers. Or be content with no answers.
But I never give up. And you loved that. Like with Trivial Pursuit. I never gave up. And neither did you. And as
much as we both wanted me to I never gave up questioning you or doubting you. And you hated that, only you loved
it. It’s what you had loved about me. My intuition. How I could read you.
They say the first things an abuser tries to squash out of you are the very things she loved about you. The things
that make you you. My intuition. That I could see through some of you. My persistence. My drive. My will. My power.
My will power.
And now you say we are incompatible.
Really it’s that I refuse to stop questioning. Because I never give up. And neither do you. Only you do. Because
you can find someone else who will give up more and see through less and that is easier. I am too much of a challenge.
And you are abusive. And that does not equal incompatibility.
And I want to make you see that. And I need to make you see that. That it’s not incompatibility. That it’s so much
deeper and less balanced than that.
And I never give up.
And that is why I’m going crazy and thinking of you when things really have nothing to do with you. Because you
were my biggest challenge to date and I failed and I never fail. I stayed for extra help every day for Calculus
in the 12th grade and for Geology in college and I never give up. And you are still unanswered and unaccounted
for and unaccountable and I never give up.
I was supposed to make you better. You told me that. And then you threw me out of your life before I could do that.
And I was supposed to know more. About you. Because you knew so very much about me. Because I told you everything.
So that I wouldn’t seem as scary and challenging to you.
And that is where you beat me. You played the game so much better than I did. Because I gave you a complete instruction
manual on how to play the game better than me. And how to play me.
And that is my main question. Was it a game? Was it all just a game? You said that in the car once. When you were
really mad and we were outside your apartment and I wanted to know what the hell was going on and what had we just
been doing if you could run so easily. And you said, “It was all game, Baby.” And later we both agreed that was
just hurt and anger speaking but now I’m not so sure.
Because I refuse to believe I just went completely crazy for a game. And lost.
I never lose. And I refuse to lose to you.
So was it? Just a game?
Trivial Pursuit? Playstation?
How could it be a game without me knowing?
Did you have me unknowingly playing your stupid game? Your stupid adolescent game?
Well then of course you won. Where’s the fucking challenge if the opponent doesn’t even know the rules? Or doesn’t
even know she is playing?
You don’t play fair. Where’s the challenge in that?
You love challenges. You love that I can beat your ass. That I’m as smart as you. That I’m half your size but can
flip you over in bed with just my legs. Leverage. Our joke. Leverage.
I’m as smart and as strong and that is why you played me. Because I was your biggest challenge to date. Only I
didn’t even know I was playing.
I want a rematch. Do over. I want a new question. That was not my final answer. I didn’t understand the rules.
I didn’t know it was my turn.
Now I have a reason to cry.
Cutting onions on a cutting board. A reason to cry. Physiological. Not psychological. More legitimate. No one can
get mad at you when you cry while chopping onions.
I cried in the car today. I’d like to believe it was physiological. Allergies. Or a speck of dirt from the highway
caught in my eye.
Because psychological crying seems less legitimate. Right now. After months and months of crying. After months
and months of obsessing. And crying. Obsessive crying. Crying obsession.
You never got mad when I cried. That was somehow legitimate to you. It showed I was real. Really sad or really
hurt or really angry or really confused. Or just plain real.
I remember the first time I cried in front of you. Not about you. That had happened the week before.
But the first time I cried in front of you.
I was sitting on your couch. You had invited me over. To discuss why you hadn’t come over the night before, even
though you said you would. And I cried. I let you see me crying. You hardly knew me and I let you see that. The
real me. The one who always cried. Because you said I had been cold and disengaged before that. That you hadn’t
known I had wanted you to come over because I don’t really show my feelings. You hadn’t known I was sensitive because
I act tough. And you loved when I started crying. And I loved it too. To be the real me in front of you. To stop
pretending to be tough. Because being tough was pushing you away and keeping us from moving forward and I was questioning
too much and I should just be me and be sensitive. Maybe then she won’t hurt me so much, I thought. Maybe then
she will see how fragile I really am. Even though I told her before I was unbreakable. Maybe now.
And so I cried every time from there on in. Because it meant you would stop arguing with me. You would just let
me cry. That day I had you massaging my feet. You had never done that before. You never thought you would do that.
Crying. Crying means power. It means ending the argument. It means showing my love and my hurt.
It means power.
Like onions. Layers and layers to cut through, crying all the way. Cutting. Cutting layers. And crying.
Cutting. Like how I took out a knife in the bathtub and ran it along the ligaments in my leg. The day you said
we could only be friends. Two days after you had told me to wait for you. That if things were different you would
choose me and I was confused and so I cried. And you had been mad but when I cried you held me. And when I told
you about the knife in the bathtub you stopped arguing. On the phone. Because I cried.
Cutting. Cutting up spinach to put in the spinach and tomato and goat cheese casserole I made for you. Cutting
up spinach for the spinach and tomato and goat cheese pasta I made for you. Cutting. Cutting up pieces for you.
Blowing on it. It was too hot. I blew on it before you ate it. To make it safer for you.
Cutting. Cutting layers of fat off my body because watching you eat was all the fuel I needed to feel full.
And now I am crying. Crying as I write this. Write this and imagine you reading it. Because maybe then you would
cry too. And then I wouldn’t feel so stupid.
You got mad when I said I hated when I cried. I hated when I cried if I knew you were out somewhere - happy. And
you said that made me a bad friend.
And I cried at that. Whenever you told me I was a bad friend. That all your friends thought I was a bad friend.
And now I am crying. I should be crying for me. I should be crying for crying so much.
But still I cry for you. The onion. Layers and layers. Complex. Acidic. More acidic the deeper you cut. Peeling
away layers of acid and tears. Cutting myself on the knife. Acid in the wound. Blood on the knife. On the onion.
On each layer. Blood and tears. Onions always make me cry.
If you have enjoyed Lani Radack's Poetry, then please be certain to e-mail her at radacklani[at]hotmail.com and thank her for posting her Work.
Click here for a list of all of Lani Radack's Stories and Poetry at Sapphic Voices Authoresses.
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