Walking Away

You know, your hair will always do "that thing." Don't bother even trying to smooth it out.

I feel the hard bristles of my brush press against my tender scalp. Harder. And harder still. I hold the brush under the tap and run in through my hair in one more meager attempt to smooth the twisted and knotted pieces. The pieces that remind me I will never have the hair I see in glossy spreads in magazines I really shouldn't read (my fragile ego begs me, pleads with me not to).

I turn on the faucet, cup my hands underneath the flowing water and angrily splash it on my hair. I forcefully pat my hair down into flat, lifeless piles. The kids at school would expect nothing less.

And I walk away.

You aren't that smart. You've worked on it long enough. Give up.

My pencil taps on the book while I suck on my finger, readying to bite the nail that never was. I pray for some whisper of an answer to appear. But nothing does. My mind stops. Freezes as my empty stare falls on the calculator I have no idea how to use.

Calculus. It it nothing but jumbled letters, numbers and lines on a page. I squeeze my eyes shut. I try again. Again. And once more to no avail. I got nothing . . .

My fists tighten, I ball up the blank paper in my hands and throw it to the floor. I push the book and calculator across the table and wait to hear them both fall hard to the floor, bent and broken.

And I walk away.


Really? You think he actually likes you? Why would he ever like you?

I can see him from across the large hall in the center court of the mall. His crooked smile, the way he shuffles his feet and shrugs one shoulder when he talks. He can't see me. But I see him. Everything he does. I hear everything he says. He wouldn't know me if he stepped on me.

I get it. I know it. But I just want that moment, one simple exchange. If I could just get him to see me . . .

That would be stupid.

I don't make any attempt to get his attention. I just go back to making drinks at the fruit juice stand that sits squarely in the court. Without warning, there he is--standing only a few feet from me. I smooth my apron, conscious of the orange pulp and slimy banana smeared on the front. I push my hair behind my ears and tip my hat down just enough.

"Hi," he smiles as he says this. Half shrug. He leans across the counter. He stares and waits.

Don't get any ideas. He's just being nice.

"Hi," I say. My chest filling with small shiny pebbles of hope.

He just wants a drink, stupid girl. This isn't about you.

And I walk away.


One day he's going to hate you. You're going to screw this all up and he's going to hate you.

I swing him in my arms and bring him gently to the ground. He jumps from one sockless foot to the other in time with the music. "Spin, spin, spin," I shout to him.

He spins as his eyes try desperately to stay focused on me. His heavy laughter rises and falls as I pull him to me, lift him in the air and we spin together.

His hands reach around my neck and his cheek presses against mine. The music stops but we do not.

He's just a baby now. But wait. He'll have you figured out in no time.

This time I smile. No walking away. Not anymore. My eyes focus on him. His eyes, the tiny lashes and deep sea blue that peaks from beneath.

I lift him up as he reaches down for my face, cupping my cheeks in his hands. The music streams around us, the beat catching our feet.

Her words have echoed in my head long enough. It is time for her to just . . .

walk away.

* * *

My own voice. I could be so cruel with the inner dialogue. I tortured myself with an endless barrage of criticisms. I still do, sometimes . . . don't I?

I wasn't good enough. Smart enough. Pretty enough.

I was never ENOUGH. Yet. All along. I was just enough. Go figure.

I just had to shut her up long enough to figure it out. And I am STILL figuring it out . . .

I am my own worst enemy. For so long, I was the one who snatched victory out of my own hands, tossing it to the ground and then stomping on it for added drama.

I could spend thousands for a therapist to tell me the why and how. But I just want her gone. I can probably take a stab at the why and how anyway. But therapy? Why bother?

I just know I hate the bitch who whispers in my ear. Which is why I've told her (and I have to tell her again from time to time, since she is like an unwanted relative with nowhere to go who insists on mooching my Thin Mints and Swedish Fish) to get lost. Take a hike. F*@% OFF.

I'm curious. Am I the only one who stares in the mirror from time to time, reasoning with the face that stares back? Telling her that she'll be OK? Telling her to have faith?

Telling her . . .

NOT to walk away?

***
Edited at 10:45 AM: I started writing this post in the early morning hours. For some reason, it is when I become drenched in reflection. I'm blaming the hormones, the all-cereal diet, the inescapable reality of motherhood and taking stock of where you've been, where you are and where you just might be headed. What a freakin' crazy ride . . .