confessions from a misspent youth

I often fantasized about a grand public injury. A fainting, a fall, a sudden collapse to the knees that for a moment, made caring acceptable. The kind of public, performative illness, death, and distress that allowed one to clutch the sleeve of their classmate, to lay their head in the lap of their enemy, or grasp the hand of a stranger for help.

I loved the idea that for a moment or two, I would suffer and someone would know about it. That for a minute, I was of public concern, rather than drowning with grace.

I loved the sudden change of norm that sudden, immediate tragedy gave. The idea that someone I barely knew, would hold my head and would tell me to hold as the room blurred. That they who once shunned me, who once swore to step upon my grave, might pray over me for a minute. This was my greatest, most sickening desire.

An shortened breath, a sudden dotting of the eyes, just enough to make people care, or if I am optimistic, to force their hand to show it. I have often been described as a bit of a ghost, for so much so much of my life happens in silence between living, residing solely in the unreliable, decaying fabric of my thoughts and dreams, never subject to the public eye. But if they could only see how deeply I wished to suffer loudly. How disgusting my want truly was, to wish for ill in such a beautiful life. But such was the feeling and such was the truth. I yearned for that moment of intimacy, a moment where somebody, somehow could care without condition, without another disappointing undressing of the self, another embarrassment, without another meaningless barrier between us.

My body, after all, often betrayed me. They failed to perform the rituals of care. My eyes never produced tears, my eyelashes never nailed the “telling flicker”, my face was never so transparent, and my eyes were never glassy or unfocused enough to suggest concern. My voice stayed stable, steadfast, and all the inbuilt cues for care had somehow been eliminated.

Perhaps this biological deficit was a product of my pride, for it ensured my suffering was never public property to discuss and address and dissect. But still, I often craved the sweet nectar of concern so freely given to others: Just me- blindly holding on to a sleeve, a cool palm against my forehead as someone looked over me.

Such was my greatest want. And it was a disgusting one indeed.