Take It From The Top

She stared blankly, all the while taking in the murmurs of conversation and peripheral blur of bodies moving quietly about. Time in this place was regimented and ever present, yet time for her was of no consequence. She worried little of one minute to the next. There were no blurs looming near, aware of the fluorescent lights humming above, the coffee pot crackling and hissing, a woman cawing rules...trying to include her. She desired no inclusion. She desired the absence of her state of hyper-awareness, a need to dull all senses for a moment of nothing. No thought. No memories. The mental, methodical notes were her way of keeping memories at bay.

           She was taller than average, with a thin athletic build and austere demeanor. She looked like someone important, someone who might be visiting from out of town for a few days and dropping in for a visit. Her hair fell dark and sooty around her pale complexion, flipping up and resting delicately on her shoulders; face splotched and ruddy from her emotional state the last few hours, gave the impression she may have sprinted down a hallway or was perhaps screaming for answers from management. The corners of her body, stilted and angular, collapsed inward as if she were protecting her organs from a jab she had no energy left to block. Her eyes were swollen red with blue rising above the lower lid crescents apologetically. Her once full lips, now a deflated, a pale horizon turned down, the anguish stamped on her forehead like a family crest. Knuckles iridescent from clutching tissues crumpled beyond their purpose, she tipped her cleft chin downward to elude any form of contact. An island unto her pathetic self is what she preferred.

Her physical state made it clear she was delicate. No one pushed her to speak, or move, or eat. She stared blankly to take everything out of focus, not to see clearly at all and stay in the haze like a dream. Colors bleeding together, spinning without spotting as the dancer chooses to experience the turn instead of controlling it. She could be safe in not seeing, not feeling, not doing much except for hearing the sounds of her shallow breathing and sensing the pressure of the seat her body sank into, and the heaviness of her heart pulling her down to the ground, to the center of the cold, dead, earth. Her body sunk with every exhale; each inaudible sigh made her feel undetected, safe for the moment.

A jarring remark about the location of the remote made her recoil in annoyance in the soft and worn-in leather wing-back. She stared at the rips in the arms, from others here, no doubt. Why would someone tear them? Why would someone destroy them? The chair was ignored, neglected, pushed to the side like an afterthought as if it did not belong to the rest of the seating arrangement. The two couches were relatively new, a neutral tweed with a tight herringbone pattern, facing each other with smaller tables flanking each side showing off their Queen Anne cabriole, as if they required a respectful drink on a pressed paper coaster for parties.

She glanced under her hair that fell over her face and squinted somberly at the blurs. She tilted her face to the right so the tears could drop from a quicker rivulet to her breastbone and be absorbed without a sound into her rumpled jersey. These bodies had their stories, their reasons for being in the common room of the mental ward. She had just arrived. These faceless blurs were sizing her up, not aware she was the observer. One clearly there for schizophrenia, another for a suicide attempt, another for alcoholism, another for heroin. All different ages and backgrounds; she was keenly aware and just passing through. It was a minor hiccup, really. She just needed to get away for a bit...regroup. Stop the inquiries from concerned family and friends who she did not consider close enough to understand at all.

She knew there was no one who truly understood, not really. That would mean they would have to know her secrets. Secrets she dares not even say in her mind. Secrets that tormented her dreams and came up at unexpected moments, like this one. She had her back turned to these memories and one slipped through and she was brought to her knees, again. She had to be patient and vigilant. She sought no clan, no popularity, no club to be a part of. People liked her enough to not wonder too much as to who she really was. That was her plan. Be friendly, evasive, aloof, and approachable enough to not cause anyone concern.

People misread her every time…every damn time. She had the ability to tell when someone was lying, it was innate, precise, and it scared people. She did not want this ability, once she knew others did not have it, she thought she was a freak. She knew who was having an affair, who was stealing money, who was acting as if their lives were perfect. You cannot hide the energy, the negative energy wafted over her and she just knew. She made enemies quickly and was ostracized for it. She was used to the lack of support from others, the lack of empathy or even the slightest humanity. She was tired of explaining her intentions because she was in this world, not of it. She would walk away in mid-sentence if someone did not understand. Now she is here and had to tell them why she has such a strong disconnect with everyone around her.

The disconnect happened early on in her life. As a child she felt she was the only one who could see the truth behind the facade. The family dynamic, the posturing and manipulation, the guilt and fear. The understanding that she was not allowed a voice. If she used it, there would be consequences. Consequences for the others, so she was despised by her siblings for pointing it out; despised by her parents for not only seeing the elephant in the room...but daring to give it a name and speak to it.