The Hoarder

The ice is melting much too quickly in this warming apartment. Every water I have put into the freezer has melted within an hour of retrieving it, which is not ideal. "But Cam," you might say, "isn't it a good thing for your ice to melt into the water you're going to drink?"

No, actually. I prefer my water frozen. I prefer it cold.

This is one of several things upsetting me recently.

Of course, maybe more pressing, is the fact that I have moved thirteen hours away from my childhood home in Georgia, further north than I have ever been before.

I love it. I love the city, I love being released from the confines of browning walls and constant yelling, I love being able to walk outside and make a quick trip to the supermarket or library or any of the multitudes of incredible eating spots.

I am slowly beginning to feel like a person again.

As a rule, I do not allow myself to cry in front of others. Not because I think it shows weakness, but because I inexplicably cannot reason away the importance of being upset. Someone will always have it worse, and whatever I have to worry about is nothing in the grand scheme of things. These are common things I tell myself to stop those feelings from emerging beyond the perfect mask I've established for myself.

It mostly works, and when it doesn't, I used to be able to stifle my cries from my younger sister, whom I shared a room with back home. She was always distracted, thankfully so, and being on the bottom bunk definitely had its perks.

It's not working so well now that I am staying with Greg. Although a temporary arrangement, it's been a lovely one, full of comfort and warmth and care. That's just who he is. Ever the attentive partner, and I want to be the same for him.

But I worry. And that's why I am currently sitting on the edge of the bathtub, door closed, trying to keep my sobs from making noise while he is on a conference call in the living room. My chest feels like it's being squeezed with the weight of my burdens, and as I gasp for air, as silently as I possibly can, I can't help but wonder if I made the right decision after all.

All this because I am looking for a job. One might think it silly, but it's more than that. It's the pain of knowing my worth and constantly being undersold, the struggle of searching for weeks and having leads fizzle out before my very eyes, the agony of being rejected again despite having ample experience and a stellar work record.

I'm a fucking treasure. I rock everything I do with ease and excellence, and I know for a fact that, even if I hate myself personally, I am the most capable person I know. It's the one thing I am proud of myself for.

And yet I'm here, rendered into a mess of a person over the stress of another rejection.

And there is this company, right? It felt so perfect at first. A nonprofit organization that specializes in helping students and higher education as a whole, right where I want to be in the world of philanthropy.

The first interview went really well. The second one, this time in-person, went even better. A third meeting, this time with the team I would be working with, was to be arranged for this week.

It is now Friday. No word.

Throughout the week, my antsy became anxiety, and I went back and forth several times debating whether to reach out or not. But I will be running out of funds soon, and bills are coming up again.

I emailed this morning. I was told I was not right for the exact job I applied for, but that I would be considered for the position one ladder rung lower instead.

I've never felt so humiliated before. I have been working for five years in managerial work, and where I was before, that was enough.

Now, here, I am nothing. Again.

Perhaps I am overreacting. For the sake of brevity, I am omitting details that may or may not affect how myself and the company are painted.

But the fact remains that I know my worth. Still, should I take it? The opportunity has plenty of room for growth, and my time is quickly running out. The need to make a decision is overwhelming, but I fear it's all going to go wrong.

It is not about the wages. It is about feeling like my humanity has been stripped bare, that I am little more than what I can offer and yet I am being undervalued. It is degrading, to settle when just a week before, the promise of the original position was on the tongues of several people I spoke with.

I replied that I was interested in the position. I feel as though I have sold my soul.

My ice is probably long melted by now. A mug of water sits on the windowsill in the living room, waiting patiently for my return.

Greg is still on the conference call. I cannot leave the bathroom. I don't want him to see me like this.

I take a shaking breath, shuddering as I push myself from the bathtub and stand in front of the mirror.

I look awful. My face is red and puffy, and my downturned eyes are drooping even further. My mouth is pulled into a quivering frown, lips dry and cracked from silent gasps.

I want my water. The sink will have to do. And it is as I am filling my hands up with water, slurping what I could get before it slipped through my hands, that Greg appears at the door.

"Babe, you alright?" I feel it in my throat; I cannot answer or else he will hear the tremor. So he asks again, this time more concerned, "Babe? Everything okay?"

"Yeah," I say, but my voice crack betrays me. I look up to the ceiling before wiping my eyes. He stands outside the door, ever patient, ever thoughtful, and something compels me not to hide from him anymore. I open the door. "No," I say, and my bottom lip trembles as I feel it coming on again.

He embraces me, pulling me close and rubbing my back. It feels good, but all I can think about is how I don't want to get my tears on his shirt. So I try to will it back. Draw those emotions back inside myself.

He somehow notices this.

He pulls away, only slightly, to stare into my eyes and wipe the tears from my cheeks. "Hey," he says softly, as if I was this fragile little thing. "It's going to be okay."

"It feels so bad," I say. "Why is this so hard?" I buried my face in his neck, trying to will the tears away again.

"I know," he says. "It's a rough thing. You'll find something though." Then he pulls away, looking at my face.

"What?" I huff, feeling suddenly exposed. My eyes are still burning with the threat of tears, and my chest hurts. I avert my eyes.

"Do you want to cry it out?"

"Wait, what?"

Greg gives me no time to contest. He pulls me by the wrist to the bedroom, flopping the both of us on the bed together in a mess of tangled limbs. He wraps his arms around me again. "You can go ahead and cry."

"I'm not going to cry!" This was a lie; a last attempt to save face. But again, my voice trembled, and it sounded more like a whine than any sort of rejection.

"It's okay to cry," he says lowly, rubbing circles into my back. "You're allowed to feel things, too."

"It's stupid," I say.

"It's not," he whispers.

And that does it. One last shaky breath from me, and the floodgates open. it's ugly, and messy, but I sob and I sob and I sob. I'm scared of the uncertainties, of the fact that I no longer belong in Georgia but I do not yet belong in Illinois and thus don't belong anywhere, of the fact that my future is still so shrouded in mystery that I have to live day-by-day. I cry over the loss of my financial security, that I lack friends in the area whom I can meet and laugh with. I'm so lonely, despite being with Greg every day. I miss my dogs. I want to be stable.

It hurts so good.

My chest is tight as I let it all out, the huge tears getting all over Greg's shirt and the bed. My sinuses have long since gotten congested, and the sniffles have developed into full blown snorts as

I struggle for air. I want to curl into the feeling in my stomach.

Greg simply holds me. Once it slows down, I feel almost empty at first. Then it happens, this feeling of lightness. My chest is no longer tight, and while my head aches, I feel...pretty good, actually.

"You feeling better?" Greg peels himself from me to crouch beside the bed. He looks almost like an angel.

"I want Snappy Dog," I say, doing my best to control the weakness in my voice. Of course, I do actually want Snappy Dog, but it was also a vain attempt to distract from the situation. It failed.

"Well, crying girls don't get Snappy Dog, so let's make sure you're okay and we'll go." He kissed my forehead, and I've never felt more loved.

I quickly stand and get dressed into outerwear. He watches for a bit before speaking up. "You know you don't have to keep it in, right? You're allowed to feel your feelings."

I sit as I put my boots on, keeping my gaze on the floor. "I don't know how to do that."

"You'll learn," he says, confident in me as ever. I take my mug of water and place it back in the freezer. Hopefully it will be sufficiently frozen by the time we return.

And as we step outside into the chilly afternoon for lunch, although I still do not have a secure job and I look a complete mess, I have a bit of a flounce as I walk.

It's not everything. It's not even half of it. But it's a start.