A short story by Spencer J. Willis
“She had the perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day.”
– Virginia Woolf, ‘Mrs Dalloway’
***
“Hi!”
“Hi.”
“How are you?”
“I’m good, how are you?” I say without thinking. A decade ago when I was too young, I learned that this is a continuation of the beginning; they’re never asking. It’s wrong to share what I really am. Imagine: hey/ hi/ how are you/ I don’t want to be here, how are you? It’s discordant. It’s… impolite. I would ruin the intricate waltz of communication: step off beat, absorb the music entirely, leave the room in harrowing silence. Stagnated, forever. Neither of us can talk candidly yet, that door opens further down the line.
“Oh, you know how it is this time of year.”
I don’t, but I nod anyway. I do know one thing, though: this is an acceptable step slightly to the left of what is expected: one less beat in the line that would wrap up our shared sonnet of unfolding speech, but in a way that is elegant, that hasn’t distressed the rhythm. The correct response is something along the lines of I’m good or pretty well, thanks, but this, I know, suggests something unspeakable: she is dealing with an emotion that is less than good and well. I’m acutely familiar, but that in itself is an unmentionable truth.
“Anyway,” she says, waving her hand dismissively, as if to dissipate obnoxious smoke. “I just wanted to talk to you quickly about how you’ve been doing.”
I had expected as much, but it doesn’t stop the tempestuous, writhing dread from tying knots within my throat. I swallow. The door swings suddenly open. “Yeah, sure.”
“How have you found being back?”
“Um…” I consider it for a second. Two. Then three. How have I found being back? The question is surprisingly opaque. I weigh my thoughts, feelings and feather-like memories of the past few months with a solemn interest, and find that I have found it to be… fine. No, not fine. Bearable. No, not quite that either. It’s been, it’s been…
In the fourth second, I remember what had caused me to leave to begin with: the invisible causes, the causeless suffering, the insufferable hopelessness. The days turning into nights turning into weeks turning into months, with each moment meaning less and less and less. I imagine myself as if I am an ocean, and inside that ocean I was lost. Drowning and coughing and struggling against the waves, every day a little less unshaken, a little more soaked through to my very soul, shivering, solitary.
Whatever struggles I’ve had since I was chemically guided to shore and helping hands waved the storms away? Those struggles are dewdrops in comparison.
A fifth second passes. “Well, I think it’s been going okay,” I say, lacking the words and unwilling to find them.
“That’s good! I’m glad. I’ve certainly enjoyed having you back; I missed having you in my lessons,” she smiles at me, and I feel warmed; the dread begins to slacken and unravel as I smile back at her. “We both know you have some work to do to catch up, but I don’t want to pressure you at all. You have time.”
“I know.” However, it never feels like it. I always feel either timeless or too late. But I try. And each and every day I try again. “I’m just taking it one day at a time. I’ll get there eventually.”
“You will,” she tells me with an omniscient confidence. “I know you will. Just let me know how you’re doing, okay?” She smirks. “I’m not that scary, I promise.”
I smile back at her again. She isn’t. She really, really isn’t; her approachability is so novel I’m still surprised at how at ease I am in her presence. The simple, carefree aura of a kind woman who cares.
And yet. “I guess I’m just not good at saying how I’m feeling a lot of the time,” I admit in a moment of impulsive sincerity; the knots retie themselves once the syllables escape.
Her face morphs softly in understanding. “Well, there is no right and wrong here. Just say if you’re struggling and you’ll feel much better. And I’ll do anything I can to help.” She pauses, as if considering the next step in a dance. “Promise you’ll tell me if things are getting bad?”
I swallow again, and consider the fragments of wisdom I have just received like a conch shell washed up on the shore; I lift its knowledge to my ear and listen, and I hear only the distinct and enshrouding feeling of knowledge and assurance that one phrase is true: you are not alone.
“I promise.”
***
It takes time. It takes considerable time. But, eventually, I evidence my promise.
***
“Hey”
“Hi.”
“How’ve you been?”
I stop the thoughtless lie before it forms on my tongue, and instead, I force myself to say, “I’ve been better.”
And somehow, against all laws of nature, the waltz merely continues.
Image credit: Caspar David Friedrich, The Monk by the Sea, c. 1808-1810