The Void

“Was going to start this out with ‘I am sorry’, but I have said

that so many times that I believe I am covered for eternity.

Some people just aren’t meant to be here. Their nerves are

too raw, MY nerves are too raw. It’s as though a filet knife has

been used to cut through my skin, tip to tail, flipped it inside

out and then stitched up nice and pretty; and I am expected

to live this way, in THIS world. 

It is no one’s fault, so please do not expect to have “seen the

signs”. It is what it is. 

Plus, now you have a guardian angel …. At least I HOPE an

angel! Ha!Ha! 

I love you.” 

All the letters had the same breezy ring to them as though I wanted my mark to be left in humor and not in emotion, which was not far from the truth. When you have tucked your feelings so deep under a tight smile and a quick one liner, you really have no other recourse. So, I stayed true to the person that everyone had become familiar with, and hand wrote the prose to which my loved ones would remember me by on crisp, white printer paper, tri-folded each page and stuck it in its own envelope. 

I sat on the bed staring at the envelopes blankly with each person’s name glaring accusingly back at me. They deserve so much more, but I am ill-equipped to provide them with a more astute reason. I had no more to give.  

I could not bring myself to seal the envelopes. 

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­  My mantra of the last few decades bubbles up from my soul, out through my lips without me even thinking consciously of it, “You are nothing, therefore you feel nothing.” In grade school, it popped into my head one day and like perfectly cooked spaghetti, it stuck. It was peppered throughout my mountain of journals, during trying times and mundane, throw-away moments. Yet, it significantly and correctly amplified the fact that emotionally I was raw. 

The truth of the matter is that I have been burying negative emotions all my life and coloring them with a quick joke to obscure the pain. The rottenness of those internalized and unhealed emotions wreak havoc on a person. They are zip tied to my marrow and there is no other way to expel these demons, than to detangle my soul from its flesh dress.  

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Another Friday night was staring me down, mocking me with its perfect white pearly teeth and youthful skin. Nearing 40 and what was once the party night had become “the mind-numbing, soul-sucking, excuse-engineering” night. Every defense I proffered was perfectly executed with an exaggerated eye roll when needed, “Have to dog sit tonight.” Eye roll. Works like a charm every time! 

 If need be, I can hang with the big dogs. I just do not WANT to and desire goes a long way. I have played this game for 20 years, from bars to clubs to house parties and everything in between. The concerts and garage bands, break ups and fights, as a couple and single. Dressed up and dressed down. From country to rock and back again.  

It. Just. Got. Old. 

Or more accurately, I just got old. 

I try to dig within and there just…. well, frankly, there ain’t shit.  

When I was young, my Dad would say, “Here is a pencil. See it?” He would hold up an old chewed, yellow Ticonderoga, school grade pencil with the tip busted, but still perfectly usable for his show. 

“Now, I am going to place this pencil on the table,” he would say gently placing it down to keep it from rolling. “I want you to try to pick it up and…” wait for it, “… you can’t use your hands.” 

His smile would shine, as each new victim would search his face for signs of mental instability. He was a magician at holding the pause to the last second, and then claiming, “EXACTLY! You cannot TRY – you just DO!” This had become a family motto in a way, with each of us holding up a pencil when another whined, “I am trying!” 

However, I dig deep and search my heart for the motivation to do my hair and make-up and meet friends out for drinks, but there is no trying or DO’ing tonight. 

My phone chimes with another insistent message from my ride-or die group pleading that they have staked out the best table and are holding my seat. I toss the phone, face down, on the couch cushion farthest from me, holding my breath as it bounces and lands safely. There is no adequate way in text to convey that you would rather down a few handfuls of Ambien with a Stanley full of vodka than step foot outside your door. There should be an emoji for that. Either way, I had said no since Tuesday when the plans were conceived, so at this point silence is all I have left to give.  

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! 

You have got to be fucking kidding me. 

I peek out the partially open slats of my blinds, careful not to flutter the curtain and give away my secretive position, of being inside my house. Even though I am sure that my shiningly clean car, sitting stoically in my driveway will spoil the ruse.  

It is even worse than I could have imagined. There stands my neighbor, from 3 doors down, who I have been casually flirting with since he moved in 4 months ago. At this point, our interactions have been frivolous but humorous with a hint of attraction. Just the right spark of je ne sais quoi to keep him at an arm’s length but give me something to look forward to. For the life of me, I can’t imagine why he wants to ruin this perfect recipe? 

“One second,” I yell through the door as I throw on my filthy baseball cap and give the mirror a glance, mentally kicking myself that I had gone make-up less in case my well-meaning friends stopped by. Looking like shit was to be my defense tactic, while pleading my case that I was not feeling well. 

“Hey!” I muster with a smile as I tap down the desire to sigh as my door swings open, adding, “What brings you over my way?”  

Damn, this man is fine! I hope the door is hiding my shapeless grey, period sweatpants that I donned after work tonight out of comfort, as much as, not giving two shits. 

“Well, I saw your car in the drive and it being Friday and all, thought you might like a drink,” he smiles holding up my favorite Modelo Negra.  

“Wow, you even remembered my brand. You got some swag, Jake!” Did I just say swag? “Come on in,” I say opening the door taking a furtive sniff of my t-shirt, which passes muster. I smell great, I only look like shit, I remind myself. 

“You sure I am not bothering you? Just had a few in the fridge and didn’t feel like drinking alone,” he throws over his shoulder as he heads to the kitchen, putting the beers in my fridge.

“Not at all, make yourself comfy,” I say finding it difficult to keep the what-the-fuck-are-you-doing? out of my voice. Hot or not, this man just unknowingly pissed me off by making himself too comfortable in my home. Yet, this is me, never actually telling a person they stepped over a boundary, but letting it casually happen while making it into a joke. 

“You are a funny girl, Claire! That’s why I like talking to you,” Jake laughs as he hands me a beer and flops down onto my couch, sitting directly onto my phone. Without so much as an apology, he throws the phone on the coffee table, and continues, “Work was hell today. It was one issue after another. I have never been so thankful for a Friday before.” 

“Yeah, I know what you mean. My day was...” I begin after a long pull from my drink. 

“...I mean this one server issue today probably makes your day look like a picnic,” he continues insulting me and talking over me in one breath. “It has been a known error for a while and I have been telling the Senior Director that my manager is just ignoring it....,” his voice fades as the familiar empty feeling slithers up my spine while his inflated ego peeks it head out from under his unruly, curly black hair. 

The perfect recipe has now been ruined and there is only one way out of this conundrum. It is a fork in the road that I have met many times and know like the back of my hand; I wish I could say I took Frost’s advice, but I stuck to the well-traveled road. 

“Yeah, that does sound harsh. How did the meeting go then?” I mumble as I pop off the top to my second drink. Questions are always my fall back. Others have always seemed extremely uninterested in my words, unless they are about themselves, and I learned at a young age to hone the craft of questions. A defense mechanism? Perhaps. Survival? Most definitely. 

“Whoa....slow down, Nelly! Did you just drink that second one without grabbing me another? Damn, girl. Didn’t peg you for such a fast drinker,” Jake laughs, his eyes bouncing between me and the fridge with a silent order to fetch. 

   I turn back towards the fridge, eyes wide with annoyance but not being able to find it within me to dismiss this rude, but again very hot man from my home; but if he called me “girl” one more time, my knee might find his dick. I want to thump my head against the wall repeatedly and wake up my senses. Why cannot I pull from the depths of my humanity to put a person in their place, especially when they are physically in my place!? 

Gulping the remains of my second drink, I open the refrigerator and allow the cold air to engulf me, hoping it cools the heat that has enveloped my body turning my cheeks bright red with rage. I take out two fresh, icy beers and pop the tops as I walk back into the living room. Reaching out for his drink, he continues, “It was crazy! The director was really impressed with the info I brought to the table.” 

I sigh, sitting closer to him because there is only one way this night, like all the rest, will end. I laugh and tell him how amazing and smart he is and that I am so happy he took the bull by the horns and stood up for himself. It is positively fascinating to watch a narcissist bloom under encouraging words from others. I had always thought narcissists already had an inflated sense of self from their own mental unawareness. It is like watching a Hibiscus bloom, while I am at the other end of the spectrum, a monocarpic plant. I bloomed once, a long time ago and have been dying daily ever since. 

All it takes is one more beer and I am under him, half dressed, staring at the ceiling wondering if Netflix has anything new on tonight while providing the timely spaced moans. Men have this notion that women want them to last long, and perhaps that is true for some, but a higher percentage of females get off on the foreplay and niceties before the grunting. At least I know this means the night is ending and soon, thankfully, he will be out of my space. 

“Whew, girl! That was just what I needed.” Jake moans appreciatively. 

Girl...there is that word again. 

“Oh, shit. Be careful!” He barks rolling to his side as my knee accidently collides with his limp dick when I crawl over him off the couch. 

“Well, I have to be up early tomorrow, so..." I let it hang in the air as I pull on my sweats and gather up the empty bottles. This is all part of the game, and I like to be quick to the draw, so I am the one ending things. Takes the sting out of being used. 

“Yeah, absolutely. Well, hey, thanks, I had a great time. If my plans fall through next weekend, should I get us another case of drinks?” Jake flimsily throws out basically raffling my vagina for a case of beer. Perhaps I should see that as an upgrade, since tonight he only brought a 6 pack. 

“We will just have to see! Have a great night,” I say closing the door with my famous one liner and a laugh and walk directly back to my kitchen. 

I grab my Stanley, ice cold from the freezer and filled to the brim with Raspberry flavored vodka and head back into my bedroom. Reaching into my drawer I pop a few Ambien and with a heavy heart, I start sealing those envelopes.