Spinning Out

The warmth of the sun glazes over my body. The light hits my skin, reminding me that I am alive—a reminder I could have gone without receiving. I move the hair out of my face, the badly dyed red strands moving out of a place where they were not welcome. Seeing is a double-edged sword; it just makes me more aware of all that I am not. Today is no different from the last—waking up in an empty room, watching shows in bed, trying to fill the void in time that never seems to pass any faster until the light of the day hits me in the face.

I have never been a summer person. I hate the way the sun feels searing into my skin. I didn’t know it then, but this summer would do so much more than burn me. I shake off the thoughts of the day and prepare for the same day I have lived on repeat over and over. It is summer break, and I am stuck in my childhood home for a few more weeks before I have to confront the life I am running from. Sometimes I think it’s easier to run home and seek refuge in this room—it is the same as it always was. A part of me I can no longer get back, a moment stuck in time. The room is silent, so much so that it begins to feel deafening. Most days are like today, a quiet but loud reminder of how much life has changed over the years. The world continues to spin, the people I once loved became people I used to love, and the only thing that remains the same is me. There is so much I have left unspoken over the years and so much I have wished I had expressed before it became too far of a stretch for me to reach. My room stays the same after all these years. Their faces are displayed on a wall, covered floor to ceiling with photos of people I no longer speak to. His picture is still in the spot I had left it, a smile that was once so familiar seems so unfamiliar after all this time. For most people, a wall of memories is something that is welcomed—it is a reminder of growth and the beautiful moments in life that were captured in an image that could never do them justice. But for someone like me, it is a reminder of my failures, mistakes, and loss.

In another life, I hope the person I am is happy. I hope she smiles and brightens the room. I hope she finds people she loves and never lets them go. In this lifetime, I cannot be that girl. “Caroline!” My mother’s loud voice interrupts me from what was inevitably going to be another spiral of self-loathing. I want to respond, but if I do, my voice will give me away. She does not wait for my response, she never does.

“We’re off to work. Please find a way to get out of the house,” there it is, the silent pause that follows her requests. It is as though if she continues to speak her mind, I would simply break. “It’s a nice day out, enjoy it.” And with that, the sound of my parents’ footsteps and the creak of the door closing follow suit. She does not get it. How can someone who used to fill the room with her laughter and her voice be a shell of the daughter she once knew? I know she is right, in all honesty, she seems to be more right than wrong lately. I wonder to myself, “Is there something keeping me stuck here?”

Love and happiness came and went with the years. I suddenly become more aware of the room around me. Though stuck in time, with the same bedding and decor as it always had, the piles of bags and boxes I hadn’t even attempted to unpack show the reality of where I am. It is sad to think that my life will always end up back in this room, no matter how far I run from the truth. Bags I packed in a panic and small reminders that I failed have ruined me. If he were here, he would surely laugh at the pathetic state of my life. If he were here, would I even be alive to feel ashamed? I shudder as I recall the man I once loved. He was sweet on the surface and made friends easily. He was a self-proclaimed introvert who just happened to be the personification of what it meant to be an extrovert. We met when we were both eighteen and did not know any better. I can still remember how warm he always felt. He was like the summer, and in the same way as the seasons, he changed early on. When we started dating, I ignored a lot of things that were screaming at me to walk away. But in my mind, he was my best friend before he ever was my partner. I was wrong.

“I love you, Caroline.” It took three days of seeing each other for him to exclaim it. I feel a pang in my heart as I recall how naive and innocent I was, believing what he said so easily. It wasn’t long before the “I love you”s turned into berating and bruises, something I did not tell my family. After all, only weak women let that happen to them. Or at least that’s what I know my parents will say. Eastern mindsets don’t work well with Western issues, no therapy could have made me the daughter they wanted. When I told them I was changing schools in my last year, they screamed and fought, calling me weak in every form of the word they could. It never occurred to them that I was suffering because I was still doing well in school and achieving more than someone who looks like they are dying on the inside. Oh well. These are the cards I have been dealt; there is no point in trying to make sense of something that will never add up in my mind.

I sit up and move in front of my desk for a moment, the window positioned directly to my left permits the sun to hit the side of my body. I wonder what life would have been like if I still had the part of me that would have welcomed the light and warmth. What a shame she died all those years ago. Maybe my mother was right, perhaps I should just leave this room. Nothing will change if I just sit around wishing I had made different decisions three years ago. I reluctantly get up and throw on a pair of leggings and a loose T-shirt that droops over my right shoulder. Maybe I can go to the park or get something to eat. As I debate what my plans for the day are, I lace up my shoes and grab my purse. But I stop right before I open the door, my hand resting on top of the doorknob. Everything inside of me screams at me to stay in, to stop myself, but I brush aside that feeling and open the door, getting hit by the summer heat and the bright scene in front of me. I wonder to myself, were the trees always so green? Was the sky always so blindingly blue? As I take in the world around me, I can’t help but notice that anxiety sticks around, like a child hiding behind the corner waiting for a semblance of safety to assure them. But that safety was never meant for someone like me.

The walk is slow. Time still hasn’t caught up to me, even with my futile attempts to catch up. The world isn’t different just because it’s brighter, just louder. The sounds of cars driving past me on the road, the faint sounds of birds chirping, and the water of the reservoir a few blocks away splashing around with the ducks swimming. I want to look up and enjoy it, but my eyes stay glued to the pavement below me. It’s for the better, it’s just who I have turned into, I think to myself. I don’t know how long I’ve walked or where my destination is, but I keep walking anyway. The heat makes me feel like I’m a few steps away from melting into the pavement. And then it hits me. Literally. I feel my body collide into something similar to a wall, the impact causing me to stumble back. As I regain my balance, I look up to meet a pair of hazel eyes staring back at me, attached to a boy with a concerned look painted on his face.

“I’m so sorry! Are you okay? Did you get hurt? I’m so sorry,” His voice is deep and frantic all at once. He stares at me, waiting for a response, but gives me no time to give him one before continuing his frantic barrage of questioning, “Oh my god, I am so sorry! I should’ve watched where I was going. I mean, you should’ve too instead of staring at the floor. Sorry, that sounded rude. I didn’t mean it rudely,” What a weird guy. He seems frazzled. He runs his hands through his hair for a moment. I take his brief moment of pause to respond, “I’m fine, sorry for running into you. Are you okay?” I can tell he feels bad, so I shoot him a faint smile. He doesn’t respond. He stares at me for a moment, like he’s taking in my reaction. This interaction has gone on way longer than I would like, and everything in me tells me to walk away. I take my cue to leave, straighten up, and start moving over to keep walking when he says something that makes me freeze.

“You have a nice smile.” It’s just words, a stray compliment from a stranger, but it’s something that I haven’t heard in a long time. I turn to face him, but he’s already begun walking his separate way. I don’t dare to utter a thank you or call out to him. I lost my voice a long time ago. A thank you would’ve been just another extension of a conversation started by my carelessness to look where I was going anyway. I don’t understand it, but that simple statement broke me down. I shake off the nerves that the incident left me riddled with and continue walking around before making my way home. The heat must have gotten to me because, for some reason, I feel this weird pressure in my chest and a warmth I cannot shake away.