Hope

 

Through the drawn blinds the afternoon sun slips into my room. Despite the late spring warmth, I pull the comforter over my head. Sweat pools around my skin, sinking into sheets that shroud me. I’m not ill. I have no temperature, no real symptoms, just fatigue and an unbearable heaviness that presses down on me making it difficult to move. I arch my neck to glance at the bedside clock: 3:27 pm. 

 

I hate working the late shift. The store closes at ten but reshelving books, organizing the stock room and tidying up take nearly an hour. By the time I descend into the bowels of Manhattan to catch the subway it is nearing eleven. And once I get to my stop, I either have to wait an eternity for a bus that never runs on time or I can walk forty minutes to my door. I nearly always chose to walk, especially at night when the streets are deserted and the city lights cast an eerie glow across the neighborhood. It is as if I entered an altered reality, one I can live with, one in which I’m not a stranger. 

 

I didn’t get to bed until nearly one, but even so sleeping this late is absurd. And even now that I am awake I’ve no desire to get up. I am off today so it does not matter if I rise at all. I glance at my desk and my computer seems to mock me. Sundays are supposed to be my writing day, the day I can pretend that I am a writer, that I am something other than a store clerk. But these last two weeks, my words have turned into silence. I sit down, spread my fingers over the keyboard and my mind freezes, thoughts suspended in a void I am unable to reach. I have no story. 

 

I envy anyone with an imagination - men and women who can create new worlds, spin fascinating tales, and sculpt characters who are more real than I could ever hope to be. And so I draw, or attempt to draw from my own life, but aside of a trip to Nepal and my acquaintance with a young boy in Kathmandu, I’ve nothing interesting to say. The proof sits in the lower drawer on the right side of my desk, a stack of impersonal letters, rejections for picture books, a novel and one short story. I had started to tape them to my walls, but a friend, finding it overwhelmingly morbid pulled them down. “To surround yourself with negativity is to ensure that you will fail.”

 

Two days ago, I sifted through the mail to find another self addressed envelope, so thin it appeared to be empty. I tore it open and out fell a form letter - a sheet of paper 4x6 and folded in half. I wondered, did anyone even read my story? It didn’t matter. Ultimately, I know it doesn’t matter. I have felt this way before, even when I haven’t felt hopeless about my work. The rejection just exacerbates my emotions. A bit of validation might not prevent me from downing but it might toss me a life preserver, something to keep me afloat, at least until the next wave, the next silent storm.

 

My stomach rumbles but I do not feel hungry.  The sound reaches my ears as if coming from a distant source, one far removed from myself. I am, however, thirsty and so reluctantly I peel back the covers and let my feet fall to the floor. The momentum props up my body but the pull of gravity is too strong and the effort of walking down the stairs and into the kitchen exhausts me. In the kitchen, I turn on the faucet and fill a glass with water. Thankfully, my parents aren’t home. They have a second house, which they visit frequently, leaving me alone, home to sleep or cry depending on the day. 

 

At twenty-four I am too old to be living at home. With a college degree, I should be doing more than shelving books. And my mother doesn’t miss an opportunity to remind me of this - the money wasted on my education, the squandered expectations and her disappointment that I have amounted to so little. I am good with children and so they want me to teach. I want to write, but it is a fool’s goal. There is no money in writing, there is no future. Teaching would be secure - it would pay the bills, enable me to move out. But the thought of teaching is like a plastic bag being pressed against my face. I hated school as a child, being trapped in a classroom where I never fit in and never felt smart enough. To give in, to teach would be to resign myself to failure, “Those who can’t do…” But living at home is no better.

 

I return the glass to the counter, open the drawer and reach for a steak knife. Turning it over in my hand, I lightly run my fingers across the blade. It’s not the first time I’ve thought about using it. I think about how it would feel slicing into my skin, cutting away the pain, the disappointment, but the sight of blood makes me squeamish. I am completely impotent. My inability to act chastises me.

 

Reluctantly, I return the knife to the drawer, cursing my weakness, wishing, as I had wished numerous time before, that I were someone else, someone with courage, intelligence or confidence. Back in my room, I look at my phone and see that I have a voice message. Friends are getting together for dinner in Manhattan and they called to invite me. I should go. Getting out of the house would be good, talking to them might help but the thought of showering, dressing and then trekking into SoHo is too overwhelming. Ignoring the invite, I pick up a book about Eva Peron, and I sit down to read it. But the words shift on the page and my mind wanders. I don’t know where it goes. I can’t follow it as it travels down various side roads. Reaching the end of the page, I know not what I have read, nor can I account for thoughts that have woven their way through my head. It is like looking at a TV screen and seeing nothing but static. A persistent buzz fills my ears and I want to cry. I try again, but four attempts at comprehending one page is too much. What is the purpose of reading if I get nothing out of it? With nothing left to do I go back to bed, pull the comforter over my head to block out the light and soon I fall back asleep.

 

My alarm wakes me at seven. My parents had returned home the previous night and so I get up with my alarm, trying to ignore the heaviness, the lethargy that pins me to my bed. If I don’t get up, they will be more critical. Not having a “real” job has labeled me, in their eyes, as being lazy. To not get up, to call in sick, to relive yesterday, would lend credence to that opinion. And so I smile, a false smile, as I put on my running shoes. If I don’t run they will grow suspicious, and I don’t want them to ask questions or rather I don’t want to answer them. I don’t want to be held accountable. I just want to be left alone.

 

I run around the cemetery. It’s the route that makes the most sense, the route that requires me to cross the least amount of streets. I look through the green wrought iron fence at the headstones meticulously lined up. My friend, my best friend, is buried there. She died last year. A car accident. I still miss her. She knew more of my secrets than anyone; to her and her alone I could be honest. I visit often. It is easy to talk to a stone, it is almost meditative, as if my issues belong to someone else. There is also a queer sense of peace that fills me when I am there. But I always leave feeling lonelier than when I arrived. A part of me still expects to hear her voice and without her advice I am lost.  

 

With the cemetery continuously at my side, it is impossible not to think of death. If I died I wouldn’t have to think all, and that thought greatly appeals to me. I get to a light and I don’t bother to look as I cross the street. A car stops short. The sound of a horn pierces my ears and I ignore the swear words that assault me. 

 

Sweat beads up on my forehead. I increase my speed, pushing my muscles until pain tears at my legs. When I run, the heaviness that presses down upon me disperses. The sharper the pain, the lighter I feel. Why didn’t I run yesterday? The thought passes through my mind and to erase it, I sprint the final block. 

 

“You’re up early,” my mother comments when I open the door.

 

“I have work,” I respond, careful not to look too closely at her face. I don’t want to see the flicker of disappointment, the way her eyes crinkle and glare at me. But the disappointment is unavoidable in the tone of her voice, in the question I’m tired of hearing.

 

“Why don’t you look into teaching?” I am tired of that question.

 

Because I want to be a writer! But I don’t have the courage to speak those words aloud. Instead I answer, “I need to take a shower.” 

 

I step passed her and go upstairs. As I rummage through my drawers for something to wear, the mirror above my dresser taunts me. I step closer, peering into the glass. Who are you? I ask, but the words just bounce back to me. And in the silence that follows, the voice in my head whispers, “You are nobody.” 

 

My swiss army knife has been sitting untouched on my dresser for months. I open a blade. I don’t have the nerve to slice a vein, but still I press the blade against the side of my wrist wanting to know what it would feel like. I close my eyes and the metal bites into my flesh. It is a short shallow slash, but deep enough that blood seeps to the surface. It doesn’t come close to killing me, but it doesn’t hurt either. It almost tickles, and for a moment I feel better.

 

I gather my things, take a shower, and eat a quick breakfast. By the time I step outside and walk a block to the bus station the heaviness returns. I slept so long but it wasn’t enough. In my pocket my hand clutches my knife, as a child clings to a teddy bear. I don’t intend on using it, but its presence grounds me, reminds me that I have a choice.

 

On the bus I try to read, but like yesterday I have no focus. My eyes bounce to the window and the passing treetops are almost hypnotic. On the train, I stare at the ads, and wonder how much business each of them generates.   I try, but I can’t stop thinking about death. I want to die. Disappear. I don’t want to dream any more. The devastation of my dreams, my inability to attain them, hurts too much. I want to give up. I want to be at peace, no longer a loser. But my death would devastate my parents. And  can’t do that to them. Always it’s about them, about someone else’s happiness, never my own. My mother’s tears, her devotion to me, her struggle to let me go bind my hands. I am trapped. 

 

When the train crosses into Manhattan the conductor announces that due to construction the R train will be running along the E track. The inconvenience is minor. Instead of getting off at 8th Street, I’ll have to get off at West 4th and walk over the Astor Place, but I like to walk. 

 

While walking, my fingers stroke the knife as if trying to conjure up a genie. I need to make a wish. Hope! I just need hope, or so I have been told. Along the way I pass STA, a travel agency. Posted in the window are various destinations - Delhi, Jakarta, Bangkok, Rome, Athens, Lima, Rio de Janeiro - and the round trip fares. I pause unable to move. My eyes anchoring my body to the earth. A new path has just opened up. I haven’t gone anywhere since my four month journey through Nepal and India, nearly two years ago. If I go away, if I take a long trip, I can disappear without finality. I open the door and step inside. Briefly, I consult with an agent. I weigh my options - Asia or Latin America - flip a coin and then hand over my credit card, purchasing a plane ticket to Thailand. I still can’t smile, but at least I no longer feel as if I might cry.