Excerpt: Tattoos and BART

An Excerpt from the book that I have been writing instead of posting on here:

You don’t understand what I’m going through!  And you’re just giggling, dismissing it like everybody else.

I was standing against the glossy bricks of the 12th Street/ Oakland City Center BART Station.  I had an oversized denim jacket on. The jacket was meant for my cousin, who it probably would have fit better, but I kept it.  The sleeves were rolled up and the denim was almost the same shade as the jeans I was wearing.  They had a hole in the left knee and right below the butt cheek on the left side.  I was frustrated when both holes formed on the same side.  They made me feel off balance.  But they were my favorite jeans and so I wore them anyway.  I would wear them until they died.  Feeling off balance can be a good thing. Right?

I said, You’re right I don’t understand.  But right now I’m coping.  That’s why I’m giggling.  I don’t know how to respond to you.

  I was pacing near the glossy bricks, thankful that it was late and people were sparse.  A red advertisement with a gavel in the middle hanging on the red bricks stared at me.  It was arguing that the Earth needed a good lawyer now.  I needed a good lawyer.  I was being tried.  

He said, Yeah.  You can’t handle me.  I told you that already.  You’re just like all the rest of them.  I get close to you and then I push you away.  I push everybody away.

There was a desperation in his voice that made me uneasy. I played with the tear in my jeans with my free hand.

Yeah you do push everyone away.  Are you going to be ok?  Do you feel safe tonight?

Yeah.  I don’t know why!  I should want to kill myself.  It would be so much easier to die.

Silence.  Festering.  I didn’t know how to respond. I continued pacing, my fingers tensing, the only sign of frustration.  He took advantage.

He continued, I should just go die.  I don’t know why I don’t just die.  Why can’t I just die?

  With each repetition of die my patience faded.  I was tired.  I was frustrated.  I was confused.  I was sad. This was my night of tattoos and empowerment and he stole it from me. My heart pounded in my throat.  I felt words working their way to my mouth.  My control fled.

I yelled, Well then go die!  

My heart raced. Fuck. Calm.  Be calm. Don’t let him win.   

He yelled back, Ok I will!”  

He yelled louder now.  More desperate.  I could imagine him sitting on his white chair he saved from the side of the road.  He was in the dark and a map of Yosemite stared at him from his wall.  

No.  I didn’t mean that.  I’m frustrated.  I don’t know what to say.

I shouldn’t have called you.  You can’t handle this.

  I felt defensive.  Yes I could. I had been for months.  

I asked, Ok, do you feel ok?  Do you feel safe tonight?

  I was frustrated that I kept asking that.  It was so clinical.  I was angry.  I wanted so badly to be part of this fight.  I wanted to yell back.

Fuck you.

For kissing my neck.  

For calling me beautiful.  

Fuck you.

Fuck you for making it all about yourself.

Fuck you for trying to kill yourself.

For being mentally ill.

For being half wonder and half something else

Fuck you for not wanting me the way I want you.

For wanting me the way that I want you  

Fuck you for being scared.

For being a fucking coward

You told me to be open and honest and authentic and I did.  I was and it was beautiful, but you crumpled me up and spit me out and crumpled me up again and spit me out.  My bones aren’t malleable.  I can only be crumpled so many times.  I am reassembling the pieces.  You are part of me now.  The pieces are reassembled around you and I.    

I asked again after a pause, Do you feel safe?   

I don’t know!  Do you feel safe, bitch?  

Silence.  The elevators clanked up and down. There was an announcement about wheelchair access at stations.  

excerpt love memoir mental illness poetry relationship writing