Bitch

Photo by Ihor Malytskyi on Unsplash

I fiddle with a hangnail. It’s taking some time to come off. The skin underneath is bright red, the air stinging the wound. I watch, detached, as the hand continues to peel my skin like a potato.

My fingernails tearing at the flesh are like birds going at a carcass.

Claudia sits down across from me, pulling her legs up to the side, leaning on the cushy armchair as if she was at home. She gives me a bright smile, bringing attention to her wide, mint green eyes. It’s supposed to calm me down, her smile. But she knows I get anxiety from cryptic messages like, “We need to talk. In a public space. :)” And she hasn’t done anything to clarify what we need to talk about. I can only assume the worst.

I try smiling, but I think it comes across as a grimace. Her smile falters.

“Roger’s moving in. With me.” Another smile.

“But not with me?” I guess at the subject matter.

“Well…not exactly…I mean, if you’re not ready…”

I raise my eyebrows. Claudia always acts like anyone under her thumb has any choice in the matter.

“I don’t imagine I’d be ready anytime soon, what with looking at apartments and leases and all.” I watch her expression. She doesn’t attempt to keep the smile on her face anymore.

I smirk, a reflex. “You’re wanting me to move out, and you’re using Roger as an excuse.”

Claudia blushes. “I’m not using him as an excuse. He’s actually moving in. We’re…we’re engaged.”

The smirk falls from my face. "Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why?’”

“I mean, why? You don’t even like him that much.”

“I love him.”

I roll my eyes. “You guys fight all the time.”

“Love isn’t just nirvana, Bree. You can love someone and still have disagreements.”

“Every single day? Shouldn’t some parts be nirvana?”

“There are some parts, obviously…”

"From what you’ve told me, it doesn’t sound all that impressive,” I snort.

She unfolds herself from her relaxed position, grabbing her bag. “I’ve given you a lot of passes because I know you were going through a hard time. But let’s be honest, things are better now. It’s time to move on. Why can’t you just be happy for me?”

My blood boils. I can’t see Claudia through the red. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. Except for a few. “Because you’re a fucking bitch.”

And I leave the room, swearing I’ll never talk to her again.

But somehow I end up in another cushy armchair in front of a woman with a clipboard. Claudia is in the other chair next to me. She smiles at the “counselor” she’s found through a family friend. A counselor whose office is their one-bedroom apartment in an alleyway. The “counselor” smiles at me.

Instinctively, I want to punch her.

“Bree, do you want to start?” the woman with the clipboard asks. “Claudia said there was some…resistance…to coming here.”

“I just didn’t want to end up in a therapist’s office for something so inconsequential.”

“It’s not inconsequential to not be getting along with your roommate,” the woman with the clipboard says condescendingly, one drawn on eyebrow raised.

“Oh, she won’t be my roommate for long.” I laugh, wincing at the sound. The bitterness doesn’t make me sound particularly strong, or collected.

“Claudia said she told you it was your choice to move out.”

“Did Claudia?” I throw Claudia a sarcastic grin. “Perfect Claudia. She’ll let anyone choose what they want. She’ll even let them walk over her, because that makes her so nice.”

Silence. Claudia had turned red, her delicate fists clenched. I’m waiting for her to say something, for someone’s anger to match mine, but doesn’t say anything. My anger starts fading, just long enough for me to feel bad.

Then the counselor says, “Wow…do you want to unpack that, or shall I?”

I shrivel in my seat, feeling disgust at this woman and myself for no particular reason. “Claudia wants me to move out because her boyfriend’s moving in. Or fiancé, I guess. And I haven’t exactly been the roommate she’s wanted.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Claudia sink in her seat a bit too. “That’s not what I meant to come out, Bree.”

“Oh yeah? ‘I’m better now, so it’s time to move on.’ Or did you just mean that you didn’t mean for the truth to come out?”

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

The blood in my face bubbles again. Why doesn’t she ever just come out and say what she means?

“Perfect Claudia has a lying problem,” I mock, knowing full well I sound like a child. “That was exactly what you were meaning to say.” More quiet. I can’t stand the silence. “It’s what everyone thinks of me. I know it is.”

“How can you know that, Bree?” the counselor asks. “If no one’s telling you…”

“They’ve told me,” I say shortly.

“Who told you?”

I sigh. There’s a stinging behind my nose that makes my eyes water. “Everyone. People who know me well. Even people who don’t know me well. Claudia was the last person to tell me all of the things I’ve always heard. I’m fine, so I should be over everything, and move on with my life. And not burden anyone else’s.”

“I’m sorry you’ve felt like that,” Claudia says in a small voice.

“Yeah, well…it’s true, isn’t it? I shouldn’t have to burden anyone else’s life. Which is why I agreed to move out.”

“I didn’t mean for you to feel like you had to move out, I swear,” Claudia says hastily.

“I don’t need your pity. It doesn’t feel real.”

The counselor fills the silence before I have to. “I think we should try an exercise. Let’s have you both talk out whatever emotions you’re feeling. But to yourselves.”

I glance at Claudia, who has the same confused look.

“What?” I ask.

“Like a play,” the counselor says, eyes bright. “A monologue, if you will. Claudia, you pretend to be yourself, Bree, and your emotions that Bree brings out in you. Bree, the same for you, except you’re also Claudia.”

I’d zoned out before she got to the end of her explanation. “No. I fucking hated theater, I’m not doing it when I don’t have to.”

The counselor’s smile fades. “Fine. You seem more the withdrawn type. We can do the same practice in writing.” She hands us each a blank sheet of paper and pencil. “Write down a conversation with your emotions.”

I raise an eyebrow.

The counselor emits an odd tutting sound. “Your emotion is clearly shame, Bree. You’ve felt shamed your whole life from other people, and you’ve internalized it so that the voices in your head say the same things you’re afraid other people are thinking.” She says all of this with an air like it’s obvious.

I shake my head, looking around at the dimly lit apartment. This woman can’t be a counselor.

“Just get to writing a conversation with your shame,” she snaps.

I smirk down at the paper. It’s nice to vent my frustrations, to get other people riled up.

Wow. I’m a bitch.

It’s not a new thought to me, and yet it surprises me. I didn’t used to seek out fights with people. Well, I’m not actually seeking out a fight, I tell myself. Claudia wants me out, and this counselor woman is terrible at explaining assignments. So it’s really all their fault.

I didn’t ask for any of this.

The pencil flapping against the paper brings me to the sensation of something wet on my finger. I’m bleeding, having picked a fresher hangnail. A spot has already hit the page. I press my finger into my jeans, hoping the cotton will absorb it. Glancing up, the counselor is scrolling on her phone. What a joke.

But yet I want to continue the assignment.

I realize I don’t have a hard surface to write on. I look over at Claudia, who has managed to write the full front of the page on just her legs. I sigh. Bitch.

Conversation with Shame, I write at the top.

Photo by Caleb Woods on Unsplash

Me: Hi, Shame. What would you like to talk about?

I don’t bother hiding my laugh. Neither Claudia nor the counselor even look at me, too engrossed in their own “conversations.”

Shame: I don’t know. I guess, I’m here.

Me: And why are you here?

Shame: Because we deserve it.

I pause. Then I steel myself.

Me: Sounds about right to me.

Shame: Yep.

Me: Why do we deserve it?

Shame: Well, since I am Shame, it’s really just you who deserves it. You’ve been a burden to a lot of people. Basically everyone you’ve come into contact with. Your desperation for someone to approve of you repels everyone. And you know it. Which is why I’m here. To remind you of it.

Me: Dick move.

Shame: I can be useful, you know. I’m here to remind you how to not be a dick. You just ignore that to continue to feel sorry for yourself.

Me: If I don’t feel sorry for myself, who will?

Shame: You don’t like people feeling sorry for you, you just told Claudia it doesn’t feel real to you. Nothing ever does, except your own pain.

Me: It isn’t real. People don’t actually care about other people…at least, not the majority of people do.

Shame: Oh, but you care about other people?

Me: I care about people up to a point, until they make it clear they don’t care about me. Even then I still care, but I don’t want to talk to them, or help them out, or be their friend. I don’t want to care about them, so I act like I don’t, but I do.

Shame: Don’t you feel like maybe other people do that?

Me: …no. I don’t.

Shame: I think you don’t know how to ask anyone for help because you’re scared that they’ll feel like you’re dragging them down with you. That’s why you think people don’t care about you. You also don’t want to drag them into the darkness with you.

Me: Yeah, because they wouldn’t be good company there.

Shame: You’re trying to stay in contentment with your situation. With your loneliness. But contentment with this lifestyle is getting harder to hold on to, isn’t it?

Me: I tried deluding myself into thinking there was a bright side. But it all ends up being bullshit, doesn’t it? Nothing ever really “ends up okay”, everyone just dies. We all will die someday. Sure, the issues that we have now may pass. But it doesn’t mean our lives are going to have happy endings. Because there will be an ending. I’ve tried the happy delusion, but it didn’t last for me.

Shame: Clearly, reality can’t either.

Me: That doesn’t make any sense.

Shame: Yes, we’re all going to die someday. But at the pace you’re running towards the finish line, you’re barely even alive. You used to have ambitions. You used to want make something important out of your life. And now you’re throwing it away.

Me: I don’t want to do anything important anymore. I don’t want the pressure of burning out or fucking up.

Shame: But you also don’t like a life with no pressure, do you? Physically, you may be clocked in when you’re at work, but your mind is clocked out until you get home.

Me: I can’t take the noise from the outside world.

Shame: So you run away into the night.

Me: Well, that’s what I fantasize about doing…this is getting weird. What’s your point?

Shame: You mourn your time every single day because you’re killing it.

Me: …I know. But I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how to stop it.

Shame: You need to stop running.

Me: I don’t want to stop running because it keeps you leaving me alone.

Shame: I see. You imagine me as one person.

Me: Mostly one person.

Shame: This person makes you feel shame. Because of the past.

Me: Yes, and I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t know how much I can handle…maybe history is best left in the past.

Shame: You’re afraid to be vulnerable again. But that just makes you feel me.

Me: I know. I don’t know how to stop it.

Shame: You feel me because you don’t feel like you can be proud of yourself.

Me: I’m not proud of myself for being…well, you. Who you represent.

Shame: If I had never told you that there was no reason to be proud of you, would you be proud of yourself?

Me: I don’t know. Probably not. I mean, I haven’t done anything to be proud of, as you’ve clearly laid out.

Shame: I’ve taught you to think of pride as accomplishments. Accomplishments that people recognize and reward you by giving you a pat on the back. You don’t really like, or need, pats on the back. What do you need?

Me: I don’t know. Love? That’s the first thing that came to mind, and it’s stupid.

Shame: But true, isn’t it. Everyone needs love.

Me: Yeah, but I can live without a soulmate…unlike Claudia.

Shame: But isn’t that why you’re here? Because Claudia’s your soulmate?

Me: …I suppose she was. She used to be my best friend. But then everything started changing. We got older, she started going to more parties, and drinking, and she was always so boring when she was drinking. And then she met Roger, and they started sleeping together…it’s all fine, we’re young, and she’s allowed to experiment…I just don’t fit in with that. I don’t feel like I’m allowed to do that. I don’t even feel drawn to that kind of scene. I just feel like I wasn’t allowed to be a kid before we all started growing up. And I feel so stuck. And like there’s this void that I can’t fill.

Shame: What makes you think you need to fill it? What makes you think you need to have all the answers? What makes you think it’s wrong to feel sad and depressed?

Me: Well…you do.

Shame: What makes you think you should listen to me over your self-esteem?

Me: You do…

Shame: But what do you really want to say to me?

Me: Fuck off.

Shame: Exactly. So, tell me to.

Me: Okay…you should be proud of me. Not for the things that I do. But for making choices for myself. For trying to take care of myself, even if I fail. You should be proud of me for not overworking myself, and trying to take every step slowly. You should be proud of me for trying to be me. Ugh. You’d laugh if the real you heard me say that.

Shame: Who cares? That wasn’t for me to hear. It was for you.

“Okay, let’s just see what you’ve got for today.” The counselor snaps me out of my reverie, snatching the paper from my lap. My handwriting is large and lopsided from trying to use the arm of the leather chair as a surface.

She skims over Claudia’s paper first, her writing small and neat. “Well, Claudia, this is…stirring. It seems like you really got in touch with your inner child. We don’t have time to read it, I need those three minutes between sessions. But this is great. We can talk about this in a separate session next week?”

I eye Claudia, who frowns at the counselor. “I thought we had two hours today?”

The counselor’s eyes practically pop out of her head. She checks a small calendar on her desk, creases in her forehead, and dramatically shakes her head. “Nope.”

Lying. Probably wanting a nice, long “smoke break.”

“Okay,” Claudia says uncertainly.

The counselor’s eyes rove over my paper, frowning deeper than Claudia. “Bree…I don’t think you understood this assignment.”

The corner of my eye twitches. I shrug and walk out of the tiny apartment building into the alleyway. “I’ll meet you at the car,” I call to Claudia.

“Well…that was a waste of time,” Claudia says, getting in the driver’s seat a minute later.

“And money,” I mutter. “Sorry you were paying for it. I can give you half…”

“Don’t mention it. I’ve been to really good therapists, I really have…”

“I believe you.” I grin. “But I’m not going to one who doesn’t even have their own office.”

“Agreed.”

We laugh together.

“I don’t think I ever asked you,” I start, “why you went to therapy?”

“Well…I was assaulted,” she say, slowly, almost casually, but she looks out the windshield, carefully avoiding my expression. “At the first party we went to. In college.”

I cover my face with my hands so she won’t see my expression. I don’t like feeling pitied, I can’t imagine Claudia does either.

But make sure she knows you care, a voice whispers in my head.

“God…I’m really sorry,” is all I can say.

“Yeah, me too.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“I’m sorry that it happened.” She shrugs, but her voice gets higher as she speaks. “I think I led him on…you know, I’m not sure he knew I wasn’t consenting…like I wanted to sleep with him, but I also didn’t want to. And it kind of felt like I was playing with his mind, when I couldn’t even figure out my own. At least, that’s what I was telling myself before I went to therapy. Sometimes I still think it, obviously. It’s hard to stop that negative cycle in your mind. But, well, I’m sorry for springing it on you…”

“You have nothing to be sorry about. Nothing.” I look at her, and she finally looks at me. “None of it was your fault. You didn’t do anything to deserve it.”

She flings herself at me and cries on my shoulder. I hug her tightly. I’d been so mad at her an hour before, nothing had changed, and yet it feels like these last few months with my best friend didn’t matter. It also doesn’t matter that she’s moving forward in her life. God knows we all deserve that.

“Hey, listen, I’m sorry about being such a downer of a roommate,” I say, my voice muffled by her shoulder.

“No, you’re not a downer,” she says, pulling away and wiping her eyes on her sleeve. I raise my eyebrows. “No, really, you’re not. You’re my best friend, Bree. And it’s just been hard for me to see you in pain. But I never meant to make it worse. I just didn’t know what to do.”

I nod. “I didn’t know what to do either. I still don’t, not really. But I did have a realization in that sketchy apartment building.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I realized that I don’t need to fill whatever void’s within me…that I’m okay with it being there, and not knowing what to do with it…” I trail off. “You know, it sounded like a cooler epiphany in my head than it does out loud.”

“No, it makes sense,” Claudia says encouragingly. “It does. I think the first step in therapy is to accept whatever you’re going through. Whatever life’s dealt you. And not try to change it. Just make a statement about it.”

“Yeah? What was your statement…to accept everything?” I ask uncertainly.

“‘My body is in no way a home for you, a playground, a nursery, a lease; and it never will be,’” she recites proudly.

“Damn.”

“It falls in line with what you said, about how I didn’t really deserve what happened…it just happened. And I wish it hadn’t. But it doesn’t define me, or my life. That’s why I love Roger…he reminds me of that all the time.”

I smile, trying not to wince. “I’m sorry that wasn’t me reminding you the whole time.”

“You didn’t know.”

“But as your best friend — as your family — I should be reminding you of your worth.”

There’s silence as we watch the last of the sunset sinking beneath the tops of the concrete buildings. I fiddle with another hangnail.

Claudia takes my hand to stop me from picking. “I’ll remind you of your worth every day,” she promises.