Her Laugh Was Purple

June 14, 2019

Alex Green

Journal 1/Therapy Writing

“What I Love About Anna”

It’s difficult to describe seeing voices as colors. People don’t understand when you tell them how whispers look like smoke, men usually speak in blue, or babies cry a vibrant white. I don’t have words for the feeling of going to a noisy bar to watch the colors of a hundred voices dance across the ceiling like the northern lights. I guess that was the hard part, the feeling of it all. My world was so strange to them, so incredibly foreign, that they would never understand. So I gave up trying years ago. It’s not a bad thing, I lived in my world and they lived in theirs. The friends I have now don’t even know I had a condition. This is why, when they would ask what I loved most about Anna, I would tell the smallest of lies. I’d tell them that she was beautiful, smart, funny, and that perfect kind of weird that lets you know a person isn’t afraid to be who they are. All of those things were true, are true, but they were not the thing I loved most about Anna. The thing I loved most about Anna is that her laugh was purple.

I think I’ve mentioned this next paragraph in our sessions but I forgot so ignore it if I have.

We first met at a bar, I was out with friends, but I mostly just watched the colors around me. Most voices came out like a sound wave, usually in red, yellow, or blue hues. Those waves would react, collide, and make new colors just like paint on a palette. This turned noisy bars into a light show. I was watching that show when I saw her laugh, way before I saw her, high above the waves. Her laugh was like nothing I had ever seen. It exploded in front of me, like a firework going off in a pitch-black room, an eruption of violet stars that blinded me to everything else. I watched it soar above the rest and I wanted to live in those stars. My friend says that I just stepped away, mid-conversation, and shoved through a half dozen people to talk to her. 

I, of course, don’t remember any of that. The time between when I first saw those stars and when I arrived in front of her is a blank. I remember blurting out to a visibly confused girl that her laugh looked like purple stars, without even a hello, and she very graciously decided to not call the police. I wish I could say that we hit it off immediately but that would be insulting to her patience with me. She describes me as “desperate”, I prefer to say “earnest”. I will admit that I may have been trying too hard but only because I wanted to make her laugh and see those stars again. Unfortunately for me, I wasn’t very funny at that time. She would say that I’m not funny now but I’ve seen those stars enough times since then to know that that’s not true. In any case, I asked her out, and in a moment of insanity, she said yes.

One date turned into two dates which turned into date-ing. We found things we had in common and, eventually, spent enough time together that we created more. We liked each other and balanced each other. We had all the hallmarks of any young couple, gross pet names, silly inside jokes, and the insufferable need to spend every waking hour with each other. She would occasionally ask about my condition but it wasn’t the same inane questions or blank stares as everyone else. She seemed to understand, or at least pretended to, and that was enough for me. It wasn’t an obstacle, just a difference in perception, and I didn’t realize how much it mattered to me until our first anniversary when she made me a painting of that night. I can picture the first time I looked at that canvas more clearly than the actual night. She had painted it from my point of view, looking across the bar at her, and dancing above her was a familiar collection of violet stars. Every detail was perfect, depicted as clearly as if I was looking through my own eyes and I knew from that moment on that I would never love anyone as much as I loved her. 

Even when she vacuums right behind me while I’m writing. Remind me to mention that next session.

That painting is back up on our wall now. It’s all a part of the healing process, I guess. Anna says it has been in storage for three years. I’m grateful that she talked me out of destroying it back then, I don’t think I’d be able to forgive myself. It feels silly now, getting all worked up about a painting, but it’s just so hard to see what you’ve lost every day. That bar was the place where I first noticed something was wrong.

I was staring at the ceiling, distracted, like always. Anna was deep in her food, trying to inhale a sandwich and something made her laugh. I don’t remember what it was but I remember thinking that the purple stars seemed a little dim. Then the music started to fade out and I looked up to a bare, lifeless ceiling. The waves had disappeared. Of course, I panicked immediately, and it wasn’t until I looked down to see Anna mouthing at me that I realized the whole world had gone quiet. If you think describing my condition was hard, imagine trying to explain losing two senses at once. I don’t think I will ever be able to properly explain the confusion or the pain. I lost myself for about a year as I floated through life in a colorless, soundless, world. I couldn’t work, eat, sleep, or do anything but just barely exist. We haven’t talked about those years yet, but I’m sure it’s coming. Anna deserves to talk about it. She won’t say it but I was the worst human being on this Earth. I was hateful, needy, emotional, and in constant pain. I think we went through four different ASL teachers before I finally stopped chasing them off. She had to be my coach, therapist, housekeeper, and cook, and I never once thanked her for it. 

I have thanked her many times since then, repeatedly. I don’t think I’ll ever stop thanking her.

She’s the one who recommended proper therapy. Well, she had been for years but I was too stubborn to agree to it until last month. Even she has her limits and I think after three years she might have left me if I didn’t go. But probably not, she would just keep going. I don’t know how she does it, I would have punched myself in the face years ago, which I know is not positive thinking but sometimes the truth can’t be ignored. She kept me in check and gave me a reason to live when everything else was gone. I’ve gotten very long-winded about this and I apologize for the essay but all of this is important to know. It’s all a part of what I love about Anna and why I’m trying so hard to be better for her. The things I told my friends about her are still true and I can always look at the painting to remember the laugh that pulled me in. But the thing I love most about Anna now, after years of putting up with my shit, is that she stayed. Even when I didn’t deserve it.