by Amy Reed
Connor
From: yikes!izzy
To: condorboy
Date: Monday, January 2—9:34 PM
Subject: vitamins
Connor,
Excuse me if I have more pressing things on my mind, but Trevor is arriving tomorrow and I’m freaking out. Even though I’m sleeping again, everything still feels a little rickety, like I’m here but not quite here, like I’m just a stand-in for my real self, like someone could just reach over and pinch me and I’d deflate. I thought I was feeling better, but I don’t know anymore. I don’t know anything. I used to think I knew exactly who I was, but that was all bullshit. I can’t be sure of anything about myself, about what I think or how I feel or if I’m even a good person. I don’t know if I want to go to any of the colleges I applied to. I don’t know if I want to be with Trevor. I don’t know if I want to be a vegetarian anymore. I feel like I’m a snow globe and someone shook me up and now every little piece of me is falling back randomly and nothing is ending up where it used to be.
I wonder if I could have a food allergy. Or if I’m deficient in some kind of vitamin. I’ve heard wheat allergies can really fuck you up.
Love,
Isabel
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Tuesday, January 3—7:57 PM
Subject: Re: vitamins
Dear Isabel,
I’m not an expert, but I’m pretty sure wheat allergies don’t make you cheat on your boyfriend (even if he is a douchebag). Besides that, I don’t know what to tell you. You keep talking about something being wrong, but then you get mad at me when I try to help.
Here’s a crazy idea: What if you didn’t see Trevor while he’s in Seattle? What if you finally got rid of him like you know you should?
Love,
Connor
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Friday, January 6—11:42 PM
Subject: Re: vitamins
Isabel,
Hello? Are you there? Did I piss you off again? God, I can’t figure you out.
Love,
Connor
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Monday, January 9—5:19 PM
Subject: Re: vitamins
Isabel,
Come on. I hate this.
Connor
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Wednesday, January 11—9:42 PM
Subject: Re: vitamins
Isabel,
Seriously, I have no idea what I did wrong this time.
Love,
Connor
From: yikes!izzy
To: condorboy
Date: Thursday, January 12—11:12 PM
Subject: officially a loser
Dear Connor,
Calm down. I’m not mad at you. Just because I’m not waiting by my computer every second of the day doesn’t mean I’m mad at you. I have a life, you know. I just happened to be busy being Trevor’s whore and getting disowned by my parents and practically committed to a mental institution. L-O-fucking-L. Not funny. But I have to pretend it’s funny or else . . . I don’t know what else. Pain. Torture. Dismemberment. Definitely heartbreak. Humiliation. Doing the same thing over and over and hoping it’ll feel different this time, but it never does.
Even though I’m supposed to be “grounded” indefinitely, I let Trevor talk me into basically running away from home. I left a note and everything and said I’ll be okay and not to worry, and then I turned my phone off and attempted to switch off my guilt, too. And then I commenced to spend the next four days sleeping on Trevor’s friend’s couch in Ballard. Yeah, I know, really great use of teenage rebellion. But really, what else did I have to do? Hang out at home and get ignored by my parents? Hang out at school and feel like an alien? At least Trevor sort of pays attention to me, and by “pays attention” I mean “wants to put his penis inside me when we happen to be in the same city.” God, I’m pathetic. I call girls pathetic who let themselves get used like this. I’m supposed to think I deserve better, right? I’m supposed to demand what I want? I’m supposed to be a feminist, right? Yes and yes and yes, but I just can’t help myself. Feminist FAIL. I want him to want me. I need him to want me. Blah, blah, BARF.
The sex was good, if you need to know. That was never the problem. Even though it wasn’t the most romantic of situations, at least in those brief moments I was able to get some sort of positive answer for why I was subjecting myself to this torture. But the more I think about it, the less it all seems worth it. Even if those few minutes were mind-blowing, they still occurred on some dude’s couch with a guy who has never once asked me how I’m feeling. There were no candles or music or lingering kisses, no cuddling or hand-holding or even really that much conversation. There was just “Oh, James is going to the store for cigarettes, let’s fuck,” or “James is taking the dog for a walk, take off your pants.”
So what do I do as I realize more and more that he doesn’t give a shit about me? I ask him if I can come visit him in Portland. Because that’s the kind of thing a girl with self-esteem does. She says, “Why don’t I skip school and possibly fuck up my chances to get into a good college so I can run away from home (again) to spend a weekend with a guy who hates my guts?” Trevor practically LAUGHED when I suggested it, but I couldn’t leave it. I practically started begging, coming up with all kinds of reasons why it was a good idea, like I could tell my parents I’m doing a college visit at Reed and staying in the dorms for the weekend. Then he said, “You want to go to Reed?” like he was terrified, like he never thought such a horrible thing was possible. Then all this bullshit started coming out of his evil little pores, like “Oh, sorry, I’m really busy,” and “My roommates don’t like having visitors,” and “It’s not really a good time,” and “Are you sure you really want to go to college in Portland?” and “Do you realize how many kids kill themselves at Reed?” and “Wouldn’t you rather go to school somewhere farther away, like ANTARCTICA?” and “Do you actually think I want to have a relationship with you, you STUPID, CRAZY GIRL?” Okay, so the last couple he didn’t say. He didn’t have to.
At first, I thought it was just about him being embarrassed by how young I am. But then I remembered something weird that happened the last time he was in town. We were out at a bar, and all of a sudden he got really weird and said he wanted to leave, and then this guy came up with his girlfriend and they exchanged greetings all pseudopolite but I could tell they sort of hated each other. And Trevor doesn’t even introduce me, and the guy goes, “How’s Rachel?” and it’s obvious he’s asking Trevor, but he’s looking straight at me, like he’s trying to tell me something too. Trevor says, “Fine,” and the guy goes, “Who’s this?” and Trevor goes, “Let’s go,” and he starts pulling me toward the door, and as we’re leaving I can hear the guy yelling, “Tell Rachel we say hi!”
Of course I asked him about it as soon as we were out the door, and of course he wouldn’t tell me anything. All he said was that he used to date a girl named Rachel and the guy was her ex-boyfriend. But I didn’t believe him. I tried to pretend I believed him then, but that’s when I still had the energy to pretend all sorts of things. I can’t do it anymore. I really can’t. I think I may finally be thinking clearly. I think I may finally end it with Trevor.
Shit.
My chest feels like it’s being torn open. Little dagger feet are stomping around in my heart. Giant claws are reaching in and crushing my rib cage, tearing everything apart until they can get to my lungs, grabbing and squeezing until all the air is gone, until I’m just a bloody, flat, dead thing.
In other news, my parents are finally making me see a shrink. I go on Monday. Are you happy now?
Isabel
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Friday, January 13—11:03 PM
Subject: Re: officially a loser
Isabel,
No, of course I’m not happy. Wh
y would it make me happy to know you’re in pain? I would do anything to relieve it. I would follow you around begging for you to give some of it to me. I am that kind of person. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. I don’t know the difference between kindness and letting people walk all over you. All I know is I want you to be happy, and if I could do anything to give that to you, I would.
You are not a bloody, flat, dead thing. You are in fact quite beautiful.
Love,
Connor
From: yikes!izzy
To: condorboy
Date: Saturday, January 14—12:12 AM
Subject: save me
Dear Connor,
I know what you can do to make me happy: Invite me over next weekend. Take me away from all of this and let me run around in the forest with you. We can build our own little Craft Shack with sticks and stones, we can teach the squirrels and raccoons how to tie-dye, we can lie around in pine needles all day and listen to the wind toss pinecones to the ground. We can lick slugs again. We can do all the things we forgot how to do, all the things our lives won’t let us. Just you and me and the deer and the owls.
I’m serious, Connor. I miss you. I miss you so much. I’ve been living in this world inside my head where all I see are ugly reproductions of myself, except one of them dresses like Trevor, and one of them walks like my sister, and one of them talks like my math teacher, and one of the them smells like my mom, and I can pretend they’re all real people, that I’m running around trying to please them, but none of them are actually real. They’re just projections of myself and my fears and all the things I wish I did better. You’re the only real person I have left, the only one who’s something more than a need or a judgment or anger or disappointment. I don’t know how to explain it, just that I feel less alive now than I have in a long time, and I know—I just know—you can remind me what it feels like to have someone look at me and love me without wanting me to be something else.
Love,
Isabel
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Saturday, January 14—1:42 PM
Subject: Re: save me
Dear Isabel,
I may not know how to do much, but I can do that. I can tell you as many times as you need me to that you’re enough.
My mom is really excited to meet you. Jeremy is really excited to meet you. Señor Cuddlebones promises to be on her best behavior. The birds and the squirrels and the raccoons and the owls can barely control themselves. And don’t even get me started on the deer. Even the bats are freaking out a little, and they’re usually too cool to care about anything.
Are you going to drive? I’ll need to give you directions because the internet gets people lost here. It’s a lot cheaper if you just walk on the ferry, and I can pick you up at the terminal if you tell me what boat you’re going to catch. I was thinking we could go for a little hike or something, or hang out at the beach, then maybe hang out with Jeremy, and if there’s a party we could go to that, but we totally don’t have to if you want to have a low-key time. I’d be perfectly happy just hanging out you and me. And my dog. You really have to meet her. You have to see what I mean about her looking like Robert De Niro. It’s unreal. If anyone can appreciate it, you can.
Are you sure your parents will let you come? Shouldn’t you be grounded until you’re fifty or something?
Love,
Connor
From: yikes!izzy
To: condorboy
Date: Monday, January 16—10:46 PM
Subject: brains
Connor,
You want to read the new play I wrote? It’s brilliant. Pulitzer material for sure. It goes like this:
The Therapy Session
By Crazy McCrazyPants
Dr. BigHead: How are you feeling?
Me: Fine.
Dr. BigHead: Is there anything you’d like to talk about?
Me: No.
Dr. BigHead: Would you like to talk about why you’re here?
Me: No.
Dr. BigHead: Your father said he and your mother are concerned about your erratic and self-destructive behavior.
Me: . . .
Dr. BigHead: Is there anything you’d like to say about that?
Me: No.
(47 minutes of silence)
Dr. BigHead: It looks like our time is up.
Me: Bye.
The End.
Ta-motherfucking-da. I’m into minimalism these days.
Love,
Isabel
(P.S.: I don’t really plan on involving my parents in my decision to come visit you.)
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Tuesday, January 17—4:27 PM
Subject: Re: brains
Dear Isabel,
I feel like I should tell you to be good and not lie to your parents anymore. But the truth is that my desire to see you is forcing me to ignore my conscience. Is this a case of you being a bad influence on me?
You want to hear something ridiculous? Alice wants to get back together again. Remember her? My lesbian ex-girlfriend? Well, apparently she’s lonely being the only out girl at our school (besides Leeza Bonham, who’s been out since she was in the womb, but who’s horribly ugly and boring), so she thought it would be a good idea for us to “hang out,” but only “temporarily” until we can both find “appropriate girlfriends.” To be honest, I might have said yes to this arrangement a few days ago. I can imagine myself thinking it wouldn’t be too bad to be naked with someone, anyone, even if she was closing her eyes the whole time and telling me not to speak so she could imagine she was with someone of a completely different gender. But I guess things feel different now, like maybe I don’t have to settle for stuff I don’t actually want. I don’t know how much of this has to do with you coming over this weekend, but it definitely has to do with feeling happy and excited, and that definitely has to do with you, which is confusing. You made the rule a long time ago that we weren’t allowed to destroy our friendship with trying to be anything more than friends. But I don’t think I was being completely honest when I agreed to that. And I’m starting to question why you made that rule in the first place. I don’t think you were being completely honest either. You think you’re supposed to be with guys like Trevor, but you’re not. And I think you’re starting to figure that out.
Love,
Connor
From: yikes!izzy
To: condorboy
Date: Tuesday, January 17—11:35 PM
Subject: baby birds
Connor,
I’m not figuring anything out. Sometimes I think I am, just for a few minutes, then all of a sudden the snow globe gets shaken and everything falls apart again. You think it’s so simple. You think everything can be solved by talking about your feelings and being nice to people and being with who you love. But what if talking about your feelings doesn’t fix anything? What if what you really need is to make the feelings go away?
Maybe you’re a little too skinny and a little too short, and maybe you’re too smart and too talented to fully integrate into this stupid little world, but there’s a place for you on the periphery, a place reserved for the people who don’t quite fit in but who are allowed to stick around because they make everything a bit more colorful. And maybe you’re not like everyone else, but at least you get along with them. At least you know how to smile when you’re supposed to and when to say please and thank you. At least you know when to shut up.
Of course the luckiest ones are the people with no consciousness, the ones who have no idea anything is wrong. They keep on with their small lives and don’t question what they’re for. Even the misfits and the uglies know deep down there’s a place for them, even if it isn’t at the top, and there’s security in that. It may not be glamorous, but it’s home.
The thing is, I don’t think you know what it feels like to have no home. Yes, I’m being melodramatic. I’m always being melodramatic. But the truth is, I
’m an alien. I was born to the wrong family. I was born in the wrong world. I am not built to survive here. Maybe there’s some world out there where I’m perfectly adapted. Maybe there’s a galaxy with a planet that’s just a little more tilted, with a sun that shines just a little bit darker, and that’s where I’m supposed to be, where it somehow makes sense to feel this broken.
Do you remember that book from when we were kids, Are You My Mother? It’s the one with the baby bird whose mom goes out to hunt some worms, except he doesn’t know that and the egg cracks open while she’s gone and he gets born to an empty nest and he thinks he’s an orphan. Heavy shit for a kid’s book, right? Anyway, he goes around asking everyone he sees if they’re his mother. He knows he’s supposed to have one; he has some instinct that’s telling him someone’s supposed to love him, but he doesn’t even know what a mother’s supposed to look like. I’m like that stupid little bird, asking everyone I meet if they’re my mother—you, Trevor, the bartender at Linda’s, the postman, the drag queen who hangs out across the street from my school, this garbage can on the corner—ARE YOU MY FUCKING MOTHER? And just like the book, everyone just sends me away.
Do you know the feeling that everything’s wrong, that your skin does not belong on your body, that your body does not belong, period? I imagine the world without me, and it doesn’t make me sad at all. It doesn’t make me feel anything. I could just drift away from my silly little life and make space for someone who truly deserves to be here. And she will rise up from my ashes to take my place, and she will be the kind of daughter my parents could love, she will be the kind of girl Trevor will want to call his girlfriend, and she will be the kind of friend you deserve. She will call you on the phone and swim over to visit. She will brave sharks and killer squids to see you. She will give something back instead of just take, take, take all the time.