the furies are at home in the mirror
even the clearest water, if deep enough can drown
It was an indistinguishable night. Repetitive chores and routines blurred the days together until a homogenous mixture of mundanity emerged out of the murk. In this particular instance I had gotten out of the shower, twisting and pouring out various vials of liquids and tubs of cream, rubbing them onto my cheeks and forehead. I did this every night, always with a fogged up mirror in front of me. (I refused to have anything but scalding water with my bath. It didn’t help that the air vent didn’t work properly either. I had it turned on anyways—not in the hopes of clearing the fog away, but instead having it act as a white noise machine: Vrrrrrr, it went.) Nonetheless, I continued to stare into the useless mirror.
And anyways, I thought, it’s much better this way.
I liked seeing impressions of my figure. Hints of my features. Shadowy movements of olive skin. It was a taste of derealization made tangible. This routine would end up being the most peaceful part of the night. The moments before sleep were always the most disturbing and heartbreaking for me. It involved too much confrontation with myself leading to fits of “buzzing,” I called it. It always starts up when I am lying on my stomach, face smushed against the flat pillow and my forearms bent underneath it to make up for the lack of cushioning. Then my body unwittingly comes to life and vibrates against the bed. I feel it the most in my arms, so I try to remove them from under my head. But without the weight of my head and pillow holding them down, the buzzing gets stronger. Now it is everywhere.
It’s probably nothing, I think.
And I am probably right, but I am still scared. It will feel like the most terrifying thing in the world until morning rolls around and I forget all about it, only until it starts up again the following night. I’ve flopped onto my back now. My hand reaches for the nightstand and goes into the drawer blindly to grab whatever sleeping aid I can get to first.
None of this was present in the bathroom, however. The foggy mirror acted as a barrier here. I enjoyed the novelty of being able to observe myself and my motions without the immediate threat of reality. Stories had Narcissus staring at his reflection through a river, and not a mirror, for a reason. I knew any amusement would quickly wear off upon seeing the real thing. A clear mirror where the furies lie. I knew there was a world of a difference between seeing a zoo animal behind the glass versus seeing it out in the wild. It would be a lethal and vicious sight.
STAY IN OBSCURITY AND AVOID SEEING ALL THE PIECES YOU’VE BROKEN YOURSELF INTO WITH EVERY CHOICE YOU’VE MADE. THERE ARE NO CRACKS IN THE FOG.
My hair is heavy and soft and burdensome. I reach my hand behind me and feel wet hair strands ending at the small of my back. It has gotten so long to the point that when I go out, any attention I would have garnered on any other merit has concentrated on this one central point—all I hear are exclamations on its length.
It’s to your waist!
When was the last time you got a haircut?
Look at that, how pretty and thick it is!
It leads me to think that this is the only thing about me worth mentioning—that I did such a great job in my neutrality with my hair’s growth that it must be congratulated. But this is just another foggy mirror. A way to reflect myself back to me without having to present the grotesque parts. It’s the only thing people can say to me without holding up the last few months to my face. It is strategic, they say these things in waiting. I read somewhere that when you have a thought you want to express but can’t just yet, you should tell that thought to stay put. Maybe they are telling themselves Wait, I can’t say this just yet, maybe later. In the months I haven’t been writing I’ve been doing this too. Telling my own thoughts, feelings, knee-jerk reactions and everything else in between to stay put. To not go anywhere until I have the means and the energy and the words to actually go about it. I’ve done that everyday since I last wrote you and I could’ve written a novel already. Stay put, I said. Stay put. I must wait for the lethargy to go, then I’ll give you this poem. I must wait until I become more verbose, then I’ll give you a picture worth seeing. I must wait until my hair reaches my waist. I must wait.
I think I am still waiting. I had hoped and waited for a brave introduction to this letter. Joyous greetings to announce my arrival, perhaps. Banter ensuing, detailing all kinds of mischiefs that had come up at university. This will never come.
(The fog and residual steam are fading now. With it, a chin and long neck are uncovered.)
My days at the university were short-lived. My pretty, ivy-covered university with its dated buildings and rattling radiant heaters. It was such a pretty picture, and I would have loved to send you a postcard just to say “HERE I AM! AND I WISH YOU WERE HERE! THIS IS EVERYTHING I KNEW IT WOULD BE! EXAMS ARE GOING SWELL!” But I do not live there anymore. It was everything I knew it would be and yet I did not like it like I thought I would. I suppose it was good to not have sent you my new address, or rather old one.
I think I walked around in a stupor most of the time. Or like a high-functioning ant. Carrying up to twenty times my body weight in assignments and responsibilities, following a scent trail laid down for me by some other unsuspecting student: DOWN THE STAIRS, THROUGH THE BACKDOOR OF GUZMAN HALL, STRAIGHT ON THROUGH HATHAWAY LAWN, TAKE A LEFT, PAST THE DINING HALL, STRAIGHT ON, INTO THE APARTMENTS, IGNORE WEED SMELL, TAKE OUT KEYS.
There was one particular morning of note. Most of the motions I went through that day were the same as the others though, still autonomous in nature. It was another restless morning after a sleepless night. The foam mattress too warm. The upstairs neighbors too loud. (Later in the evening my roommate would take the broomstick out from the hallway closet and knock it against the thin asbestos ceiling several times once our neighbors reached their raucous crescendo.) Considering everything, the buzzing underneath my skin was actually moderate. The “sleeping aids” had dulled all physical senses, my body drowsy and lethargic. The same couldn’t be said for my head. My spiraling thoughts had never seemed more glaring and bright than that moment, it was a grotesque show of internal fireworks, a rainbow of colors swarming the inside of my eyelids. It turns out the buzzing had started in my forearms but ended in my consciousness. And I wanted to fucking sleep.
But morning came all the same. Sunrise, para bellum.
(Shoulders unveiled. A cheek. An eye peaking out from the mist from behind the glass.)
I went about my routine earlier than I should have. It was an uncomfortable flurry of hushed footsteps, squinting at the fluorescent lighting, and shivering from the frigid air—at this point, neither me nor my roommate had figured out how to turn on the heating since the controls were behind her desk, yet to be discovered. I had gotten ready all the same and I still had so much time to kill. I sat down at my desk, not knowing what to do with myself. I got back up and filled the tea kettle, and set it to boil. I sat back down, tried to turn on the built-in desk lamp, fiddled with it successfully, and set off trying to read Joan Didion’s Slouching Towards Bethlehem. The buzzing still hadn’t completely gone, but it was waning at any rate. I gave up on reading a little bit before the kettle sounded, lifting it from the heat before any whistling could start as to not wake my roommate. It turns out she was more or less awake, having gotten as much sleep as I did. But still I felt pretty successful at being a quiet little mouse, foraging about the cold brick-walled room. I sloshed together a pathetic breakfast of a slightly bland oatmeal and bitter green tea. Despite it being a pitiful meal it worked in warming up my stomach and was a pleasant accompaniment to my looking out the window in front of my desk. The grey skies that are linked with the first flush of mornings brightened a little before me. It was nearing half-past six, probably. The sun was still a bit late to start in those months.
My roommate roused from her “sleep” and a quiet, strangely intimate, conversation started between us. I, sitting cross-legged at my chair with my back twisted in order to face her, my arm resting on the backrest, hand cradling my chin. Her, still in bed, piled with comforters, with only her dirty blonde hair and drowsy eyes peaking out from underneath the nest of blankets. At this point I cannot entirely remember what was said in those early morning whispers. I do know it was one of those simple, pleasant exchanges—one that was all the more elevated from a shared experience of misery. I remember the obvious “good morning’s” said in irony. I remember offering tea. I also remember telling her that the morning felt like the ones you have at a hotel on holiday, just less pleasant: the lack of sleep and discomfort that comes from being in an unfamiliar room; the premature start to the day; the slow build-up of adrenaline and nervousness to later activities you both look forward to and dread.
It was time to go. I said my goodbye’s, received her good luck’s, and I went out to the shared living room/foyer where everyone’s shoe racks congregated. The mess is what you’d expect from a group of busy university students. The two armchairs were huddled closer to the sofa; bags of snacks and a net of oranges littered the coffee-table; an unplugged projector left lying on one of the cushions. I grabbed white sneakers from my shoe rack, sat down in one of the armchairs, and made the switch from house slippers. This is the only time I’d ever be alone. None of my three roommates had to start as early as I did. So I sat back in the armchair, relishing in this short moment. Then I got out my keys, headed out the door, and locked it behind me.
The day proceeded on normally enough until the buzzing made its full appearance.
(The fog has completely left the mirror. Lethal. Vicious. Para bellum.)
Let’s call it what it was: it was everything ugly that was left unresolved in those previous months of therapy. It was derealization in full swing. And it was getting louder. Classes down the hall were being let out and the students’ collective chattering and footsteps have never seemed so thundering before. I wanted to cover my ears, but I was too busy keeping my twitching hands from being noticed by my seatmate. (God, what class even was that? Pharmacology?) My eyes darted around frantically until it reached the clock. We were being let out in five minutes.
I made it out of there eventually. My professor’s “Have a good day” echoed behind me. Like an ant’s antennae, my eyes swept left and right for a trail to follow. DOWN THE STAIRS. THROUGH THE BACKDOOR OF GUZMAN HALL. STRAIGHT ON THROUGH HATHAWAY LAWN. TAKE A LEFT. PAST THE DINING HALL. STRAIGHT ON. STRAIGHT ON. STRAIGHT ON. But something must have gone wrong during all this. When I made it back to the dormitory, it was evening and my roommate was at her desk. I knew her schedule, and I should’ve made it back to our room hours before her. I sat down at my desk and looked down at my white shoes, now caked with mud. Where the fuck did I go?
“Where did you go?” My roommate twists in her chair to face me, hand cradling her chin—the same position I had earlier that morning.
I think I walked through the forest that borders the campus. Sequoias, redwoods, cypresses, eucalyptus. Not that I remember seeing them, though. I swiped my hand through my hair—it was frizzy from the humid air that sweeps in from the bay. I try to broach her question with a touch of nervous humor, an imitation of a laugh bubbling out of me all the while.
“You wanna hear a funny story?” I had asked her. Not a genuine question, more of a formality. And none of this was humorous to me at all—I barely remembered what I had done in delirium between the time I left class and when I arrived back in the dorm. But I went on telling a whole lot to this stranger. Not just starting from the ant trail, but even before that. Maybe it was a rare moment of weakness, a lapse in judgement. Some people have a gift of finding the whole and making it bigger. I’m not talking about my roommate. I found out we had eerily similar experiences, down to the prescription drugs. I felt less embarrassed of myself now. I told her that I think I became one of those students you pass by on campus who are crying on the phone, the ones you sympathize with but don’t do anything about because you feel the same way, the only difference is that you aren’t displaying it for everyone to see. During the span of time in which I left class and arrived back in my room I answered a call from my mom. I think I paced and cried, like That Student you see on occasion, and maybe that’s how I got mud on my shoes. If I were to romanticize how that call went with my mom, I would say my voice had the same desperate cadence Mitski had when she sang “Class of 2013”.
Verse 1, Verse 2, Verse 3, Outro and I’ll leave what I’m chasing for the other girls to pursue.
My parents made the drive over to my university that same night—a 2 hour drive during which I talked a quarter life crisis out with my roommate. I got out to the parking lot and barely made out my mom’s dark blue car that appeared black under the dim yellow streetlight. I got in and left university.
STRAIGHT ON, STRAIGHT ON, STRAIGHT ON.
:postscript: i haven’t given up on academia altogether. it’s like I’ve made a wrong turn and the GPS is saying “rerouting”. but i’ll admit that at this point i’m wondering if i will ever end up finding a place that will feel right to me. i’m not saying the world is all bad, i’m not saying I’m all bad either. maybe it’s a matter of compatibility that i haven’t been able to find at all so far. or maybe it isn’t a matter of compatibility but of uncertainty instead. the terror of uncertainty which isn't being uncertain about what we want, it's wanting something but not knowing how to get it—working towards something without knowing it’s a sure thing. maybe this was me asking my family, or maybe the world, do you love me? will you keep loving me? even if I behave awfully? if i hurt myself and worry you and do bad things? will you love me like you love a bad dog?
