Cracks

She was the girl most likely.

The girl most dear.

With a smile wider than a picture could capture-

She was sure to never shrink or fade.

“She’s leaving home…” the song says.

She is going to make her own way.

Down the track of no return,

the cracks of wack or better yet-

the breaches of the vaguely ventured,

are the cracks 

of wack that will appear.

“She’s leaving home…” the song wails.

 She is going to make her own way.

Crack #1 A Pattern has formed

The crescendo is real at this hour of the morning. It starts out at sea like a buoy in a shark film just distantly ringing, but as the magic hour for attacking the day gets closer and more urgent it clangs undeniably in my ears, and the teeth of dawn are closing in around me.

Opening my eyes in the clutches of Tuesday, I almost gives in for just a few more moments sleep. It will be painless and quick to drift off.

But it’s Tuesday. I have an important class every Tuesday.

“I just can't get out of this bed, buoy it’s all I ever think about it!” 

Is that the shark singing to me, or am I singing to the shark or are we singing together in this strange and unexpected early hour death serenade?

I sit up and hear the singing, dragging me back again. 

I have been up all night writing my report and I can’t believe I did that. I have never been so unprepared in all my life but I pushed myself to this limit anyway. 

What are you doing? 

Well, Netflix seasons? Three, five, or six?

Mindless scrolling? Hours.

Social media comments…too many.

Arguments arising from the above commenting? Not enough as far as I’m concerned. I like to have the last word.

Shopping online? Well just take a look at my floor. It’s covered in boxes. One night of solo drinking I had the brilliant idea to make some kind of art piece out of them. I kicked it over the next day.

“I DON’T WANT TO GET UP!” I say out loud, but I really cant’ be late. Today is presentation day and I feel very underwhelmed. 

Two feet on the floor and looking at the rack of half hung up clothes, I hear my mother’s voice and even see her standing in the room where she had lectured me for what had seemed almost too short of a time. 

Standing with hands on hips and a mouth as grim as a riot squad front line, my Mother disapproves and glares. There was not even time for a disobedience of eye rolls. The kind you find so gratifying as a teenager. But her stance and her silence followed by a cluck and a brisk exit left no room for any rebellion or internal fuck you. Her power play had been a success and I was left standing there amongst the chaos and the mess, staring only at that sad rack of half hung up clothes.

Oh, and it’s Tuesday. I have an important class every Tuesday.

Crack #2 A Most Important Humiliation.

Are my professor and my mother having a secret affair? I wonder as I walk in late to the meeting room. He too disapproves and glares and his mouth in that riot squad line represents all of the authority on this particular morning.

Today, I don’t have the benefit of a lecture hall where I can slink in the back and hide behind the tallest person or what recently liked to do, which was to choose a spot of people wearing similar colored clothing. These days I liked to wear grey or black or lot, like everybody else, never any color like I used to.

“Right,” he said looking at the class, “Casey Wright. Are you with us today?”

The guy I borrowed a charger from the week before and the only one who knew my name, looked right at me and because this ginger bearded snitch had turned my way, everyone else like the dull minded sheep they are also turned and stared at me too.

“Ahhh you’ve been spotted Casey Wright thanks to your much relieved classmates. Come to the front. I am assuming you are ready?”

It’s too much attention for my liking right now, but there is nowhere to hide, no excuse to give and no exit to enter. Reluctantly and barely holding onto false bravado, I walk to the front, with my notes: these pathetic papers of last minute desperation. These pathetic pages of procrastination and regret.

Crack #3 (Everyone has a gateway)

“It was humiliating,” I slurred, slurping on my delicious, memory erasing beer. The ginger snitch listened and leered in front of me. “Screw that prick,” he valiantly offered. 

“Whose idea was it to have all of you critique my report,” I splattered most unceremoniously, “ You were one of the worst. What did you say? Embarrassingly unoriginal? Who the-“

“ Now, now,” the ginger snitch interrupted, “I didn’t mean it. It was just for show, I mean come on, I have to look after you know who too.”

“Well just you wait till it’s your turn. I’m gonna be brutal.”

“Sure you are,” he said.

“The thing is I knew it was rubbish. What do you expect from a night before effort.” 

I am not much of a drinker, in fact I don’t really drink much at all, but whatever.

“Hey, another!” I shout abruptly.

I droned on and on. His glazed grey eyes were looking in my direction but they did so with motive. Don’t worry, I knew that.

Every time his tone changed, or he dropped a hint, I complained even more. This is quite a fun game I drunkenly thought. I didn’t know I had that in me.

Then, ginger snitch stood up.

“Hate to love you and leave you,” he drawled, stretching his arms above his head, “But I’ve an early start tomorrow and after your crucifixion today I better be prepared. See you tomorrow.”

And just like that he left, leaving me in a sloth of self pity and intoxication.

Crack #4 (The Crack of Shame)

What the hell is that?

I’m facing something completely disturbing and ludicrous. 

It pulls me into an unknown place where dragons and women with outrageous body parts exist! What the-

This is not my room. This is not my space. 

And it smells. It reeks of a night just past! 

Oh my god…

I slowly turn the other way and immediately see a ginger head. It is stark against the white of the pillow, and throwing in my face the somewhat exact events of last night. I peek under the sheets and I am naked wait no, there is a sock. I have on one sock. 

I have to get out of here. How do people do this without being heard?

I turn back poster side and see my things in a disapproving heap on the floor. Oh my God. I repeat over and over to myself. This cannot be happening. My legs are out of the bed and ever so carefully, I put my arms to the floor so I can quietly turn over with the aim of lying on my back. I plan on putting on my clothes in this position, then crawl out, the only problem being not being seen as I open the door.

The snoring is louder now. Thank you God! I may just get out of this one yet. 

I clutch my bag between my armpit and neck, and crawl towards the door. I feel sick with the effort and added humiliation and am horrified by how far I have fallen but must get to the door. My free hand starts to move up and then I am stopped.

 A throat clears and the ginger snitch says,“Crawl of shame?”

I am caught, busted with no redemption or hope, so I open the door, slink out, and leave it behind me.

I need a cigarette.

Crack #5 Light it up

I don’t smoke but it seems like the best thing to do right now. I stink of dubious behaviors so what’s the harm in one more?

It’s Wednesday. I am a mess and I am going to buy cigarettes.

I am aware of the looks I am getting. Isn’t this what happens at college? You take the walk of shame? It’s been a bad, bad twenty-four hours where not one reasonable decision has been made. In that short time, I have achieved a kind of fame on this small college campus with several people smirking and judging. 

I am so naive about the names of cigarettes. The first one that pops into my head is Camel. I’ll buy some camel cigarettes and smoke one after the other. In the corner store, the sticks of death are lined up neatly in rows and rows. I utter the words I thought I never would.

“Pack of Camels please?”

The bored attendant reels off a list of Camel products. After he stopped, his boredom continued on as if those previous sentences were the highlight of his day: to showoff to me his Camel product knowledge.

“Uh lights?” I answered, “and matches?”

“You want matches? It’s windy today.” 

I’m sure he thought he was being helpful, but it didn’t come off like that.

“Yeah, I want matches.”

“Suit yourself.”

When I got outside that smart ass was right. How had I not noticed this before? Glazed and walking, all I wanted to do was smoke outside and feel sorry for myself. Thank you wind. Today is not that day.

Crack #6 or is it more than that now?

I am officially a smoker and I drink more now too, although I am not yet an alcoholic. Well done Casey.

As for my studies, I am trying to stay positive. There is an Australian band my brother was into and it has the best name. They are called ”Not drowning, Waving.” That’s me you see with my head barely above water, waving my arms furiously. 

I’m visiting my folks this week and have just made back into town. I put out my last cigarette and head into the supermarket to buy more.

As I enter, I trip and fall. My stupid shoelace has come undone. Hunched on the floor, tying it all back together I hear my name.

“Casey?” 

Looking up it’s some guy. 

“Casey Wright? It’s David. David Bellamy from Wilson High school.”

“David?” I look closer and realize who it is,“Oh hi.”

“I barely recognized you. You look so different now.” 

Seeing the pity in his scan and hearing those words hit me in a place where it really hurt. 

“I should hope that I’ve changed. It’s been six years now,” I respond defensively.

“Yeah but you were really different back then. I mean I guess it’s just the clothes,” he offered sheepishly, “ Not that there is anything wrong with what you’re wearing. Ok, I’ll shut up now. It was great seeing you.” 

I watched him disappear quickly down the aisle. 

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” I wondered.

Glancing down I saw ripped jeans, and a plain t-shirt with a stain on it. “Jerk,” I thought.

“Do I have something on my face?” 

Taking a detour, I headed for the ladies department. What was this David Bellamy getting at? Pushing past the Mickey Mouse nighties and khaki cargo pants, I stood in front of the full-length mirror.

Then, I started to cry.

Cracked

Sobbing like a fool in a small town ladies wear department, I am a picture of pity and fear.

An old lady with denim knee length culottes and a shirt that said “Glamourpuss” in pink sequins, comes up and stood beside me.

“Oh dear, are you having a fat day?” she asked putting her hand on my shoulder.

“Excuse me?” I responded, jerking away. I know I’m in the grip of a spiral but I am not fat. Please leave the weight analyzing to me.

I leave the store in a rush, desperate to get out and let the windy day relieve me of my constant indignity.

I feel like a shredded mess with the rips of my jeans being the tip of an iceberg.

If someone out of the blue can insinuate whatever David Bellamy was insinuating, imagine what my Mother could do. The one person who knew everything about me. I could see her scooping the shreds of my self respect and squeezing them between her fingers, just to prove the point that there was not much left and that I am without a doubt, not the person I used to be.

Rehab Exercise #65

It’s circle time for the adults. The cracked and broken ones anyway. It takes me back to my college days when we would meet to constructively criticize. 

In this cold hall, faces look away not wanting to be explored. Shifting weights transfer to mediate the struggle. Legs bouncing at hectic speeds attempt to quell the now. Each set of hands hold tightly words they must reveal to unravel. 

Today, Luke’s method of selection was to just simply go around the circle. That meant I would be last. I felt anxious about what was written down. They were words now two weeks old but I was okay with them.

“Thank you John,” Luke said calmly, “That just leaves us with you Casey.” He gestured for me to stand up.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” I said quickly.

“Well, may I mention an observation?”

Great, I am being placed under the circle time spotlight. It doesn’t matter how many days I have been here or how many rehabs I have tried. I just don’t like being the focus of a microscope. I simply don’t. But for his effort I will let him do it. I am admittedly curious about what he has to say.

“I just asked because I could tell you weren’t listening,” he says, “I don’t say this to shame you but you needn’t feel so worried. There’s no judgement here.”

“I’m ready Luke,” purposely giving his comment no second of my attention, “I’ve done the task.”

He uses his hands to show me that I have the floor. 

When sharing, we can sit down or stand. Once, a guy laid down on the floor and spoke his truth with his hands over his ears. I liked that about this place. You could do almost anything, but it had to be the truth.

I read:

I am the girl most likely.

I am the girl most dear.

With a smile wider than a picture will capture-

I am sure to never shrink or fade.

I’m leaving here, my song says.

I am going to make my own way.“

Down the track of no return,

the cracks of wack or better yet-

the breaches of the vaguely ventured,

are the cracks 

of wack that no longer appear.

“She’s leaving home…” the song says

She knows she’ll make her own way.