A, My Name is Asshole
I'm finishing up my sushi. I'm parked in the corner of this little restaurant where people get together in small groups to chat and eat raw fish. There is also free Internet so I have been camped out here for a while, hoping that if it stays busy, and I tip well, nobody will mind. I slide my white laptop into its bag and go up to the register to pay my bill.
"Thanks," I say, signing the chit. "See you soon."
"See you soon," the cashier says. "Tomorrow."
He's smiling at me. He's kind. He does not mind my parking here for hours at a stretch, at strange times of the evening or on the weekend. But my heart sinks, because I really, really don't want to be noticed.
For, like, the first time in my life.
I have to camp out in sushi bars, coffee shoppes, bookstores, and the occasional library. Sometimes I have to get a hotel for the night. I'm not homeless. I have a home, it's just that the guy in that home kicks me out, oh, once a week, sometimes more. So far the record has been three times in one weekend. I drive around crying and when I stop crying I park in front of my computer and do work. My editors love me. I'll come up with 20 story ideas in a weekend. Or sometimes they hate me, because I never stop crying and I don't do any work at all. That's usually when I've gotten up the gumption to leave him. I do this about once a year. Every time I go back it's harder to get out.
I just don't want people noticing how often I'm hanging out with my computer. I would hate for anyone to guess how bad things are. What I allow to happen to me.
I find myself reading the James Frey rants and feeling like I understand the guy. He had a sickness and had to invent a superhuman version of himself to express how hard it was to kick his addiction. If you just say "it was so hard to kick it," people go, "yeah, musta been," and move on. If you say "it was as hard as having root canal without anaesthesia, it was as wrenching as a beautiful girl who hangs herself, it was as rewarding as making friends with a mobster who looks like Gene Hackman," people go, "Oh! I get it!" Frey just wanted everyone to know how hard it was so they don't think he was weak for being addicted in the first place. I want people to know the same thing. I want people to not say, "She's pathetic for staying with him." I want them not to say "She's so powerless in the face of emotional abuse." I want them to say "She is up against monsters bigger and more powerful than love, than motherhood, than fear, than self-preservation." If I could write a monster story that would get that across, I would. But I can't imbue a monster with the kind of flatfaced terror I feel when I think of leaving the man who kicks me out. In monsther movies, I always identify with the monster. Even Alien. She's just laying eggs. Even Predator. He's just doing what comes naturally. I'm less intimidated by Jaws than I am by my mate. So I am just writing what happens.
I walk out of the sushi restaurant and get into my car. Tucked away in my trunk is a couple days' worth of clothes, a little shopping bag with toiletries, and my favorite boots, which I was afraid to leave in the house because he gets into frenzies and destroys my things when he throws me out. I know I can't come back here for a while. It's hard to find free wifi in this neighborhood, but not as hard as it used to be. Sometimes I drive around with my laptop open, like a little friend, and watch for the signal to kick in. Then I look for anyplace where I can sit. Inside. Outside is too … too close to what I'm dangerously close to. A bag lady with an iBook. Homeless with a Honda. Oh, it's all so cute and so disgusting. I would hate myself if I could muster up enough emotion to give a shit.
"Thanks," I say, signing the chit. "See you soon."
"See you soon," the cashier says. "Tomorrow."
He's smiling at me. He's kind. He does not mind my parking here for hours at a stretch, at strange times of the evening or on the weekend. But my heart sinks, because I really, really don't want to be noticed.
For, like, the first time in my life.
I have to camp out in sushi bars, coffee shoppes, bookstores, and the occasional library. Sometimes I have to get a hotel for the night. I'm not homeless. I have a home, it's just that the guy in that home kicks me out, oh, once a week, sometimes more. So far the record has been three times in one weekend. I drive around crying and when I stop crying I park in front of my computer and do work. My editors love me. I'll come up with 20 story ideas in a weekend. Or sometimes they hate me, because I never stop crying and I don't do any work at all. That's usually when I've gotten up the gumption to leave him. I do this about once a year. Every time I go back it's harder to get out.
I just don't want people noticing how often I'm hanging out with my computer. I would hate for anyone to guess how bad things are. What I allow to happen to me.
I find myself reading the James Frey rants and feeling like I understand the guy. He had a sickness and had to invent a superhuman version of himself to express how hard it was to kick his addiction. If you just say "it was so hard to kick it," people go, "yeah, musta been," and move on. If you say "it was as hard as having root canal without anaesthesia, it was as wrenching as a beautiful girl who hangs herself, it was as rewarding as making friends with a mobster who looks like Gene Hackman," people go, "Oh! I get it!" Frey just wanted everyone to know how hard it was so they don't think he was weak for being addicted in the first place. I want people to know the same thing. I want people to not say, "She's pathetic for staying with him." I want them not to say "She's so powerless in the face of emotional abuse." I want them to say "She is up against monsters bigger and more powerful than love, than motherhood, than fear, than self-preservation." If I could write a monster story that would get that across, I would. But I can't imbue a monster with the kind of flatfaced terror I feel when I think of leaving the man who kicks me out. In monsther movies, I always identify with the monster. Even Alien. She's just laying eggs. Even Predator. He's just doing what comes naturally. I'm less intimidated by Jaws than I am by my mate. So I am just writing what happens.
I walk out of the sushi restaurant and get into my car. Tucked away in my trunk is a couple days' worth of clothes, a little shopping bag with toiletries, and my favorite boots, which I was afraid to leave in the house because he gets into frenzies and destroys my things when he throws me out. I know I can't come back here for a while. It's hard to find free wifi in this neighborhood, but not as hard as it used to be. Sometimes I drive around with my laptop open, like a little friend, and watch for the signal to kick in. Then I look for anyplace where I can sit. Inside. Outside is too … too close to what I'm dangerously close to. A bag lady with an iBook. Homeless with a Honda. Oh, it's all so cute and so disgusting. I would hate myself if I could muster up enough emotion to give a shit.
posted by OutOfAbuse at 9:48 PM
1 Comments:
You're not pathetic or powerless. You're up against what must feel like insurmountable odds, believe me, I know. But they're not insurmountable, they're just scary as hell and completely uncertain. Fear of the unknown, perhaps our biggest oppressor. But you can overcome it, whether you believe it or not, it's true. You can save yourself. The fear will not kill you, but the guy just might. Believe in yourself, you're worth it.
Beverly
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