Ain't that rich?

She buried her face in the pillow and closed her eyes so hard that her eyelashes quivered. You put your hand on the small of her back and she flinched. You didn't want to get pissed because you knew, but six months is a long time to try and not get pissed.

You took a few deep breaths and then went into your tiny kitchen with its miniature fridge and toy oven. The bourbon splashed the glass wet and you slammed it and the glass down hard. What the fuck? What the fuck? You knew about depression, but this was something else. Something beyond. This was thick, backwater swamp depression. This was muck and filth. You took another drink and then went back to the bedroom.

She was sitting up in bed, now, staring into the quagmire of depression's dressing. Piles of clothes. Plates of food. Ashtrays and butts everywhere. She took slow, even drags and exhaled into that small spot in front of her.

"Baby, are you OK? I mean, I know you're not OK. Can I help you? Will you talk to me?"

"I'm fine."

"Sarah, you're obviously not fine..."

"I'm fine."

You had two choices. You could trash the fucking apartment. Slash the mattress and thrift store couch. Punch holes in the walls. Bust out the windows. Or you could trash yourself. You stood up as calmly as you could.

"I'll be back in a few minutes."

She didn't respond, but you weren't surprised. What was there to say?

The bar down the street was busy, two games blaring. You sat in the dark corner and spent her money on liquor you didn't need. You tried not to look at yourself in the mirror behind the liquor. You didn't want to see whatever it was that she saw...or didn't see. You didn't want to see why she would stay out all those nights and stay in bed when she was home. You didn't want to see yourself as she saw you.

It ended soon after. In theory. In reality, it never ended, and you will always want to know whether she was fucking some other guy on the nights she didn't come home. Not that it mattered. Not that it didn't matter, either.

You did a lot of drinking after that. She continued her family's tradition of accumulating money by birthright. Pills fixed the angst. She was much nicer to her next boyfriend.

Ain't that rich?

No Take-Backs

It was almost as if I could watch the words leave your mouth, round and proud and pulsing. I wanted to shove them back in, but I'm not that kind of guy. It was unfair, a stab from the dark of frustration and fear. It was an attack. I felt the sting, and the parsing of explanations did little to resolve the issue. There are some things you hear that you will never forget hearing. So be it. But don't try and tell me I heard it wrong.

So, I lay in the dark as the stench of awkward silence settled around us. It wasn't a martyr thing. I wasn't getting any joy out of it. I knew I was right. You knew I was right. I still heard it. It doesn't matter. It's in there now, with the other snippets I hear. They go back past my earliest memories. I can't remember a lot of what happened to me when I was a kid. But there are a dozen or so statements that I will never forget. What can I say? I'm a word guy.

I've said a lot of stupid shit in my life. I'll own that. This isn't an exclusive club. We are a fickle breed, humans, lovers. We say things that hurt each other. We get angry. It is the way you deal with the fallout that matters. For instance, why are you yelling at me right after you apologized? That's not how apologies work.

There can be a million apologies and I know you didn't mean it, but unless you're planning some electroshock therapy (which I might be down with), the words are in there. And if there is one thing my brain likes to play with, it is words. 

I sit here now, gentle hum of traffic thrum from the outside. Birds calling tentatively in that way they have before it rains. I look around me and see all the things that I have tethered myself to. I am not a hoarder, but I empathize.

So, there's no real point to this story except that this story is everything. Because this story is erosion. Because one asshole thing you say can ring in my ears for years and years. And you can claim culpability; you can take it back a thousand times. But, really, you can't. You think I'm just being stubborn, but I wish I could forget. A lot of things. I just can't.