Stephen King, "Rose Madder"
Yesterday while I was at work I found out that my old girlfriend was back in town. I instantly felt nauseous. Distance between us was a big healer, and she was supposed to be in Seattle, goddamn it. I worried about the possibility of running into her again, and I felt miserable.
I went home after work at started on this book and felt worse. Have you ever noticed when you're heartsick that everything and anything will remind you of the former lover? Sad songs remind you of the bad times, or the ending of the relationship ("Everything ends badly, otherwise they wouldn't end," from the film "Cocktail"). Upbeat songs conjure up the happier times. Even nonsensical songs like "De do do do, de da da da" will remind you about how you never listened to the Police together, and how that seems kind of odd. And so as I started this book I remembered the last time I ever saw her.
We had already broken up, but for some reason we agreed to "fake it," as we lived together. She was leaving for Costa Rica in a month and we could then use the "out of sight, out of mind" clause to explain the dissolution to friends. Neither of us wanted to try to explain that she had actually decided to go back to the guy I had stolen her from. I would say I don't know why I agreed to this, but I know exactly why: I was hoping I could change her mind.
As we pretended that nothing was wrong, I was a wreck. I went through a myriad of emotions - pain, jealousy, betrayal, melancholy, anger. She always had a high degree of empathy, so I would try to make these emotions clear to her. But she had already publicly stated that she was going to shut off the emotional side of her reasoning and stick with her logic - the logic that said she needed to go back to this guy.
I could mention that on this night I drowned my sorrows at the neighborhood dive bar, and come to think of it, that's what I just did, but there's no excuse for what happened next. I came home late, but she still wasn't home yet, and she was out with her old boyfriend. When she did come in, I tried to talk to her, but she cut me off quickly, saying she felt drained and didn't want to feel any emotions.
"There's one emotion you haven't tried yet," some little voice said to me. "Fear."
I exploded. I threw things at the wall. I kicked holes in it after the objects failed to break through the cheap particleboard. I screamed - not words, not arguments, but gut-wrenching howls.
And then I saw her eyes and snapped back into reality. What the fuck was I doing? I slowly walked into the next room and heard her call her old boyfriend, asking him to pick her up. I was shaking.
She gathered some things and I eventually tried to talk to her. We went outside, and I tried to explain that I just needed to talk, and she had cut me off. I apologized a hundred times. And then the old boyfriend pulled up in his car, and I exploded again. My mind shut off. I didn't say anything, I just walked quickly up to his car and started kicking in the door. She started to walk off quickly toward the corner 7-11, yelling at him to drive away, which he did. I howled again.
I went to the lightrail station, and there I sat for over four hours, waiting for my body to stop shaking, moving only to hide when a lightrail approached. I had never been prone to violence before. If the boyfriend had gotten out of the car, I wouldn't know the first thing about defending myself, much less attacking someone else. What was truly frightening was seeing how everything in my logical reasoning had just snapped shut, and with such vehemence.
I stayed at a friend's house for two days after that, and she moved out all of her stuff while I was gone. I can't say I blame her. A year passed. We started talking again through e-mail, and we tried a serious effort to become friends again, but it wasn't working. I felt miserable during the entire time that transpired.
And then something happened - Steinbeck saved my life.
I was reading East of Eden and came across the point where Samuel smacks Adam Trask in the face for brooding, saying "Do you take pride in your hurt? Does it make you seem large and tragic?" Well, Samuel smacked me as well. I knew it was time to move on and wrote her for the final time to inform her of this final chapter.
And why the hell am I talking about this? Well, remember how I said everything that surrounds you will remind you of that person? Rose Madder begins with a story of an abusive husband and the psychological terror he puts his wife through. I was reminded. Oh, I hardly classified as abusive, but that one incident was enough. I became nauseous again.
But on the second day, after work, as I finished the novel, I was able to separate the two. This is not me. This is nothing like our relationship. I finished the book (which sucked, by the by). And I'm finished with her.
