1:59 p.m. - Friday, Sept. 17, 2010
Sinfonia
She had been sitting there for over an hour, just thinking about this catastrophe at work. Just sitting. When she couldn't sit anymore, she drove. She stopped to get an oil change, then promptly changed her mind. She stopped for lunch, and changed her mind again. She thought she would go to Sears to get a replacement bulb for her headlight, and wound up right back where she started . . . brooding about this problem she couldn't figure out how to fix.
She started to panic. She started to get desperate for relief. Desperate for distraction. Movies? Nothing she wanted to see. Grocery shopping? She couldn't concentrate on making a list. There was construction going on outside her window, and the sound of the drill began to penetrate her soul.
She could hear it in the bedroom, the living room, the kitchen. It had to stop. She locked herself in the bathroom and sank to the cold, dirty floor.
Hypervenilating, she pulled up the left leg of her pants - still in her work clothes from this morning . . .unable to slow down enough - even to change into something more comfortable.
She knew how to make it stop. But she had worked so hard to become better than that. To leave that behind her. Well she's not really better, is she? She's the same old stupid girl. Stupid, ugly girl.
The flood came. The tears streamed down her face, and the hypervenilating got worse . . .she knew she couldn't stop it this time.
She scratched and tore at her leg . . .This is what she deserved. To be punished. Punished for not being able to fix the problem at work. Punished for not being able to handle the pressure. Punished for her indecisiveness. Punished for her ugly body, and her ugly heart, and her ugly existence. Punished for the pain in her feet - the result of working these 6-day work weeks, 45-hours even on a short week, 13-hour days, no break for lunch . . .and the anticipation of not getting into grad school . . .and her inability to feel a goddamn thing.
And she sobbed and tore and hit and scratched. And when she was done . . .she sat there . . .feeling the risidual sting rising from her red, welted skin. And she felt better.
And worse.
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