The past week has truly been a whirlwind. I’ve gone from waterworks to numb in the time it takes ice to melt in the summer. Dying to living dead without actually hitting the “dead” phase in between. I just wanted to hate him and now I do. Part-time.
My body has forced one of the neural substrates in my brain to seize me completely, and put me on autopilot. Somewhere upstairs something has awakened and dug through the library of neural plays and found, “how to get through a break-up for dummies,” and put the plan into works. I’m “fine” now. “Fine” being that I don’t have another word to say that fits this state, but it certainly isn’t “fine.” I shouldn’t even be saying it, and I catch myself wanting not to say it when people ask me anything related to my current emotional/physical being. But compared to last week, “at least I’m alive.” I’m sure that’s what I should be viewing this as: “fine” = “alive” = stop asking me. Last week was a very dark week, and even going into this week was dismal and full of death, at least in my mind.
For the first time in my life I couldn’t tell myself I was going to be “OK” and honestly believe it. They were just empty words, out the mouth, in one ear and out the other. It didn’t even register to me. And even now, they still seem empty. I can say them, hear them, but the autopilot isn’t registering anything other than academic plays from the playbook. This worries me deep down inside somewhere, that when I get back, the autopilot will vacate the premises, and I’ll once again crash and burn. Why do some mistakes continue to be made even after the person learns their lessons? You’d think that after going through this ordeal once, my current state of being, physically and emotionally, is “progress.” “Really good considering.” So why, after making “progress,” do I know that when I get home the glass will shatter and the ocean will come flooding in again, and I will drown into the same sea of poison that almost killed me just last week? Why are some mistakes inevitable to come back and haunt you even after you’ve made “progress” and already started learning the lessons?
The thing I need to remember is how much I hated him on Monday. How the selfishness I always thought I was imagining, and therefore accommodating, ignoring even, became so vividly aware to me over the course of a class time. “Did the leasing office call you?” “Can’t they just email you the form and you sign it?” “Thank you.” That last one was the worst. Not only did he leave me at the most fragile, stressed out, unnatural time of my life, but then it suddenly becomes a rush to get all this stuff done on his end. In a way I feel sort of taken advantage of (now that’s an understatement for what I’ve already been putting up with!). He knew (or maybe he didn’t because he’s a child, but either way this was the result), that by leaving me during this time, I wouldn’t be able to focus on anything but us. I wouldn’t be able to do anything because if I left for a day or two, I’d quite possibly ruin or majorly set back my career. I’d have to do whatever he said because he was still talking to me amicably, and that might just keep this girl’s hopes up enough that there’s a chance for reconciliation, until he got exactly what he wanted: completely out.
I guess I should see it from my parent’s perspective. “You have a big two bedroom apartment all to yourself now.” Or something like that. I can start over. Get new things, repaint the bedroom. Even buy a new bed if I want to spend crazy dollars up the wazoo. And we’ll see, maybe in time I’ll feel that way. But right now Sir Auto Pilot is still only thinking about dysarthria and motor speech disorders. Qualitative data and bad research on aspartame. As much as I just can’t think about my classes, especially after this, I guess the old playbook still has “get an A and keep your 4.0 for the first time in your life” at the top of the list.
So until the auto pilot flips me the deuces and says, “peace,” I guess I’ll just tag along for the ride. I. My body, because my being seems nowhere to be found right now. And how can I blame it? Next week I’ll get done with the books, done with the tests and studying, and my brain will start to have to find other neural substrates to operate me. My faithful pilot will sign off, and surely the plane will crash and burn all over again. This time maybe worse because it’s more than two weeks I have to get through. It’s my life this time. I hope I can rise from whatever soldering ash there will be, but at this point I still can’t say I’m going to be “OK” and believe the empty words, or threat. The autopilot isn’t accepting any messages right now.
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