On Evading the D
Krystal rolled over in her bed and groaned when the harsh mid-morning light grazed her cracked lids. 11 AM. Great. She had been hoping for at least noon. Today’s agenda was the same as yesterdays and the day before that, yet also somehow, her therapist liked to remind her, distinct from those days in one way or the other. Monday was different from Sunday because on Monday instead of lounging on the couch after breakfast, she lounged in bed. Tuesday was different because after lounging in bed, she moved to the couch to parse through her ever growing list of emails. (Someone had appointed her the taskmaster of Philadelphia it had seemed.) And Wednesday — or was that Tuesday — what was today? Friday? Or — it didn’t really matter. Each day was the same: a mix of nothing, NoThInG, and the idea of something, followed by a sleepless night interspersed with all too quick masturbation sessions and hours long musings on what drugs would end her insomnia once and for all. That and —
Krystal scrunched up her nose, and rolled back over to reach for her phone on her nightstand. She had been trying to get into the habit of keeping her phone out of arm’s reach — 5G and all that — but recently, with the lack of sleep, it had been more convenient to keep the easy source of amusement close by. Insomnia’s a bitch, but late night Twitter keeps a bitch rolling just the same. Still, though, she was surprised and despite herself curious about what the hold up could be. Usually he texted by now, and — ah. Speak of the devil.
Ugh. This corny ass little boy never hit her with anything new. A little tuft of air harshly escaped her nose. She was amused despite herself. I mean, she was disappointed. hey, goddess think u can keep up w me today 😏 was the grodiest of pick up lines — was that even considered a line? — but there was a global pandemic, after all. A girl’s gotta have some little pieces of meaningless entertainment scattered here and there. So this was the game they played. He would text. She would reply. He would text again. She would reply. Each time her responses became more and more delayed. But he would keep texting. So she replied.
And he was insistent. Krystal knew that he thought that her delayed responses were her playing hard to get, and that might have been part of it. But the larger thing which she couldn’t even admit to her closest friends was that his insistency made her a little… uneasy. He would text and she would reply, and sure he was chasing her and she knew it was all fun and games at the end of the day, but… the days were hella long. And she was actively trying not to get chose. It was getting harder not to acquiesce to his demands.
Maybe demands was a harsh word? Yeah yeah she knows the red flags, she’s been in her fair share of toxic relationships. Start to doubt whether she really does have the upper hand in this — would you call? — relationship. Check. Start to keep her true emotions about him to herself because she doesn’t want to come off as dramatic to her close friends (who have seen her go down this road many a time, mind you). Check. Start to lose excitement for things that normally would make her really happy because she knows he would want to know wyd. Check. Start to not reach out to her friends at all because between all of the NoThInG she has to do and crafting coy texts to him, she’s started to feel anxious and overwhelmed. She was getting there — though she did finally call Lilia last night.
Hmmm. What to say in reply this fine — it was actually Saturday, she checked — morning… hey, goddess, think u can keep up w me today 😏 was pretty standard fuckboy material — though she had to applaud him for throwing in the goddess. It was a nice touch. A welcome change (that she didn’t know she needed) from the usual baby. This time she let out a full-fledged snort as she imagined what he would do if she told him she actually has a very active onlyfans, and he’s not the only joker in the game gunning for her.
But then her split lips stilled and slowly closed around her perfectly straight pearly teeth — the perfect smile he always jokingly mocked her for. Who else are you flashing those pearly whites to? he’d ask, almost cruelly. That question in particular always got her. Indignantly in her head she’d retort, “Um, my friends! My family! My friendly work acquaintances that I speak to out of convenience!!!!” But of course, she never told him that. Instead she always flashed him her smile, big and bold and bright, with a defiant glint flashing in her eye that he, to her dismay, never seemed to register. Perhaps, he smelled her fear.
With a groan, Krystal flung herself out of bed — done with the morning pity party — disappointed less with the lame booty call and more with herself for putting herself in a situation where bringing up her onlyfans (which didn’t even exist, not actively at least) — really the notion that she could be fulfilled by anything or anyone else — would spell a lot worse than his paltry irritation.
But she did find herself more distracted than usual that day — while trudging through breakfast (food had been so bleh lately), while scrolling on her phone back in bed, while responding to emails on the couch. She tried to reason that maybe it was because she hadn’t gotten her energy out — either through working out or just getting out of the house — in a few days. She tried to reason that the looming start to work “as normal” — her employer had decided that starting next week everyone would be called to work in-person due to corona’s “lessening grip on society” (like, what?) — was the reason for her stress. She tried to reason that because she hadn’t spoken to anyone in a few days — other than her short call with Lilia the night prior — she was feeling especially cagey. But her reasoning couldn’t shake from her mind the other thing it kept returning to.
so did you think more about my offer? Oh yes, the offer.
She snorted again — what is up with her being so sardonic lately! — before, deflated, dropping her phone into her lap. What did she think of the offer? Well she doesn’t know(!) which is the point. It’s been on her mind all day which is why she hasn’t been able to get anything done! Krystal now huffed out and angrily swatted her phone onto the coffee table in front of her. To go over to his place or to not, that was the question. On the one hand, now that Krystal has relocated to an apartment of her own and is no longer interacting with her older family members, there’s no trouble in increasing the body count of her bubble per sé… But on the other hand, this is how it always starts!!
One day you’re minding your own business, completely in the clear of any wishy washy energy. The next, you realize you haven’t interacted with anyone you cared about before this person entered your life in Forever, and you’re caught in this vicious blame cycle with yourself because “you should be better than cuming for boys who non-ironically ironically lead with calling you goddess” (you tell yourself), and you are resenting those closest to you for getting to lead their normal happy-go-lucky lives, none the wiser of this leech who keeps hitting your line, meanwhile leaving you to suffer, except “it’s your fault because you never opened up to them about him in the first place” (you tell yourself), etc etc, and on it goes. What luck she had. And that’s the thing too: it’s not like she only attracts toxic men. But for some reason they just keep. coming. back.
Gross.
Of course, Krystal, though she knows it’s in her best interest, simply can’t reach out when she feels this cycle starting again. She doesn’t reach out because she’s afraid that if she acknowledges she’s playing into the cycle, she’s effectively… played into the cycle. Shoddy logic, she knows. But she’s had the same friends for ages, and they always give the same advice —
“Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”
“What.” Krystal wrenched her eyes from the coffee table and tried to keep a nondescript expression as she appraised her l*ver.
“You said you would never come over, but here you are baby,” he laughed at her as he prepared their dinner in the kitchen, herself still on the couch. “Relax, goddess, you’re a beautiful woman, I’m a pretty fly dude if I say so myself, this is some pretty fly chicken we have right here,” he pauses to laugh at his quick wit, “and we’re going to have a fun Saturday night.” When he winks at her, she wants to barf. The good news is that he does seem pretty relaxed. After months of their waiting game, he actually seemed quite secure once he had her in his waiting arms. How ironic. The sad news is that now Krystal for sure knows she’s fallen for the same trap (it was the “fly chicken” remark that really did it for her). Mediocre d. And once again, she found herself berating herself for making these same rookie mistakes.
If evading the d was as easy as completing a checklist… If evading the d was as easy as completing a checklist… If evading the d was as easy as completing a checklist… (She will change the emphasis each time she retells this story in the future; for each friend to whom she shares her cautionary tale is waging her own personal battle (against the d); they are all united against a common enemy (the d), but each has her own personal hang-ups and fears that makes her particular toxic cycle difficult to break out of) we would have completed that checklist. No one wants mediocre d, she would reason to her distraught friend. Her distraught friend would sorrowfully nod her head as Krystal soothed her shoulder, Krystal now considered sage for triumphantly beating her oppressor (the d) yet again. But that would be later. For now —
“Let’s get into it,” he swaggered over to her on the couch, now not even bothering to conceal his prepubescent-esque glee at the thought of interacting with an actual real life female.
Gross.
“So do you prefer lemon pepper or buffalo?”
Does it matter? Krystal almost found herself retorting. But then she remembered that in these less-than-ideal situations, it’s the little things that you could control that sometimes made all the difference. She thought about it, as she surveyed the platter in front of her, ravenous for the first time in a while. A wing was halfway to her mouth, Krystal vainly hoping the food — and a whole lot of it — would bring some comfort this night itself could not, before she finally answered his question.
“Buffalo.”
“Ah, my cousins are from there. Treacherous winters, no?” the nurse behind the counter congenially engaged Krystal in conversation as she filled out her paperwork.
“Mm mm,” Krystal returned a tight smile (did it matter to smile behind masks anyways?) before hurriedly returning her forms. She hated small talk — especially small talk which never failed to wound its way to what she was doing in the city, and where she was from originally, etc etc. Being reminded of a happier, simpler time? Top tier gross.
“And dear, if you don’t mind me saying,” the nurse interrupted her retreat, “I know how hard it can be to get out from under,” the nurse wagged her eyebrows, “you know what I’m saying.”
Did Krystal know what she was saying? — the fuck?!? — Gross!
By the time she was called back, she’d scrolled through her Instagram and Twitter timelines, sent off a couple of ugly snaps to her closest friends (‘I hate it here,’ read the message on all), and checked all 4 of her email accounts twice. Krystal dreaded having to articulate what she had taken to calling “The Buffalo Chicken Wing Night” that precipitated her booking this last minute appointment, but she was proud of herself for — in the midst of her 45 minutes of scrolling — not responding to any of his messages. She obviously hadn’t taken the steps to block his number, but a first step is a first step.
“So… Krystal, is it?” The doctor smiled, and Kyrstal hoped her mask could hide her annoyance. Buffalo may be the source of her happiest childhood memories, but it was also the site of her childhood home wherein lived the woman (her mother) who unironically gave her a stripper name and to this day tells her she should be grateful! Grateful!?, she had shouted during their last argument (also the day she moved to the city), At this point, I’d prefer Karen!
“Hmm,” she nodded, ever polite, her lips unconsciously spreading to form their perfect smile. Dammnit, she thought, quickly closing her mouth.
“Well, Krystal, from your file it sounds like you’ve been engaging with an… unwelcome character. It doesn’t sound malicious?” the doctor asked. She shook her head no. “Right, well, these long term… what’s the word… hmm entanglements, yes.” You have got to be kidding, Krystal thought. “Well, these entanglements, they’re typically pretty benign — though that doesn’t make their psychological toll any less damaging, as you know.”
How astute. Krystal had to keep herself from rolling her eyes.
“Well, let me not speak for you,” the doctor leaned back in their swivel chair, hands behind head, feet splayed out. “Tell me, how would you characterize this — this — ”
“Yes,” this time Krystal did roll her eyes. This fucking doctor, this fucking delicacy with which they — and the whole of society too! — broached this topic is the reason why —
Krystal stopped herself. She sighed. “Yes, I’m here to discuss my depression.”
This morning, I had the very clear re-remembrance of a snapshot of my life in late March, perhaps early April. That time felt fresh. My hair was freshly re-dyed, I was settling into my new life at home. I marked my days by weekly scheduled phone calls with friends.
My custom had become to take these calls sitting on the curb outside of my apartment, usually with my daily orange in tow. I love the heat, and I would find the spot on the curb which had evaded the scattered shade brought by the trees above. In this particular snapshot, I was in a bad mood and ranting to my girlfriends on the call about how things had been dicey that week with my mom. As they were consoling me and telling me things would naturally get better with time, my mom arrived home from work and hurriedly hoped out of the car. She waved to me and explained over her shoulder that she was rushing to go for her daily walk. Once she re-emerged, I tried to express my willingness in going on the walk with her, but her clear impatience caused me to retreat into myself as I (pathetically, I thought) told her it was fine, to go ahead, and that I was still on a call anyways. I had been feeling emotional about the state of our relationship that week already, and that short interaction nearly made me want to cry. Why or how I do not know, but often when I am feeling a lot of emotions, even and especially when I know I’m being hyper-emotional, it is the little things that tip me over the edge.
The weird thing about re-remembrance is that it casts past snapshots in a rosy hue. I speak about feeling upset with my mom from behind a veneer. No part of me is able to tap into those emotions now, though I clearly remember having them. Instead, I remember the feeling of my hair on my shoulders, reveling in the slight breeze that was a Georgia spring, the comfort in my friends, the feeling of my bare feet on the pavement. What does it mean and what a wild thing that I look back at peak-COVID-19 (the first one) with nostalgia.
And indeed, there have been many things that have made this crazy time liveable. When I first got home, it was those weekly calls that kept me afloat. When the newness of quarantine wore away and life felt painfully tedious, it was the inter-team competition on the Wesleyan Men’s crew team, on which I was then a member, that safely delivered me through the month of April and most of May. During the month of June, which otherwise was marred with the scar of George Floyd’s death and protests rocking the nation, I was thankful to have a difficult online class as a welcome distraction. And in July, it was the drafting and publishing of my written work that gave rhythm to the otherwise empty weeks.
Now, though, in August, I find myself drifting in a listlessness reminiscent of some of the worst days of April. It’s doubly strange because I have something tangible to hold onto — my arrival on campus, and a fresh start, with people(!), in less than 2 weeks time. But it’s precisely now, when things should feel more tangible, that life seems to have lost its clarity. I do not feel paralyzed with fear about entering a potentially COVID-19-infested space. And while I do feel excited about starting classes and making new friendships and relationships in a new place, those good nerves haven’t permeated the dullness which seems to have characterized life as of late. Instead, I just feel like I am… here. I think about death a lot without thinking about it at all. I feel an intense loneliness while also feeling a resolute apathy towards people in general. I am trying to think critically about the world at the same time that I can’t think critically about what distinguishes one day from the next.
That dullness is how I would characterize the time before sadness (the d). There is a general sense of overwhelm by life itself, an indescribable lost-in-the-sauce-ness, an inherent chaoticness, that is punctured only by your fear that you old enemy, true sadness (the d), is lurking in the shadows, ready any day now to return in full force. I am hopeful that right now I am only in a baby slump. I am pretty sure that right now I am only in a baby slump because this entire year has been characterized by baby slumps and the crests of the waves those slumps create. I am confident that my next crest will most likely supersede true sadness.
There is this sense that we are hurtling towards the finish line. Well, I am not sure where you are in life when you read this. But, for me, there is this sense that I am coming to the end of one long saga. The interminable summer is ending. And while it most certainly was not all bad, and I did wake up each day blessed to have evaded far worse things than the deterioration of my personal mental health, I did hate it here. Sadness and anxiety and uncertainty were insanely insanely insistent here. They evidently still are.
I do not write this to say rah rah we are all feeling the same things, so you are not alone and you got this. I would be quick to give that advice if you were one of my close friends battling your own fight with the d, because it is true. And there really is no checklist, at least not in my experience. I write this for me, to give myself perspective because right now I am too zoomed in to tell whether I am entering a trough or about to approach a crest. I think what quarantine has taught me is that most of the time, it is neither. We are at the whim of cycles. Those cycles overlap and intersect and ambulate and oscillate at various frequencies, at various times and places, so much so that at the end of the day, life very much does feel the same. What makes me feel better is the acceptance that that’s okay. I think for me also the d might always be there? Maybe? I know enough to know that only hindsight will be able to tell. And I guess I also know myself enough to know that in a way it doesn’t matter because whatever my brain conjures up will be rosy as hell.
