The girl who ran out of smiles

When I get home I am too tired to think, too tired to be patient, too tired to notice whether you kiss me or not. I am a confusion of missed opportunities, of images I create for myself and lies I tell to myself to get through the day. I collapse onto the sofa and pull the blanket around me.

‘You cannot possibly be cold,’ you say. Peeking out I can see your muscular calf; you are so strong, so physical and I feel fragile in your presence. Your shorts are stained with paint and plaster, you cannot have been home long, but I am cold and I mumble something and scrunch deeper under the itchy wool rug. You walk away from me and I mourn though I cannot bring myself to call you back.

My head is buzzing from work and from driving, I cannot switch off and the blood rushes uncomfortably in my ears when I close my eyes. I cover my head and stare into the darkness instead, it seems to go on forever without change or variation, it is constant and I feel safer because of it. I long for a way out of this cycle but there is no escape from my thoughts, they chase me even into my dreams.

At work I don’t give myself time to think, I take on any project that will fill my day so that I am rushed and stressed by the time I leave, I prefer that to having time to breath. Time is not my friend; it lies in wait for me and pounces to dig in its claws the moment I relax.

‘Have you forgotten our meeting?’ my boss asked me today, she held a pad and pen in her hand, clearly ready to leave.

‘No,’ I replied, wondering if she believed me or if I sound defensive. I had forgotten but admitting it would destroy the perfect image I have crafted for myself at work. I demand perfection from myself, sometimes I achieve it, and I am quick to pick up the slack for anyone else hoping that if I need it they will return the favour. I wonder if they think I am a suck up or if they see through me to the terrified girl who is out of her depth. Do they know that the tired lines around my eyes feel like they extend inside my skull as though I have left half my mind in the safety of a warm bed while the other half works overtime in the harsh light of day? Do they notice the way I shake and sweat if I forget my medication or the way I am subdued and distant when I remember it? Do they privately worry or discuss me when I am not there or are they simply too polite or self involved to wonder if I am alright?

I eat my lunch with the girls from my office. They always invite me though I can see their happiness when I decline. Today they were a welcome distraction; they chatter happily about their boyfriends, their friends, their busy social lives and I cannot think of a thing to say. I am afraid I do not belong and I wish I could confide in them without judgement. I want to empty my rushing mind of the worry that they cannot stand me being around, that they laugh about me when I am not there, that they can see my failures as clearly as I can. I eat quietly, feeling the food sit uncomfortably in my stomach as we climb the stairs and they head gratefully back to their desks. I am a weight to be born, a heaviness which no one carries willingly.

‘You don’t want me either,’ I say to the darkness under the blanket. I can hear you in the kitchen banging pots irritatingly as you wash up. Why can’t you be quieter? Why am I so irrational about things which don’t mater? ‘Why am I stuck like this?’

The tears are close now, the weight and tension in my body seeks to flow out the only way it can. Sometimes, when I am careless, it makes words from itself and escapes when I open my mouth. I know the words hurt you, your blue grey eyes frost over and I can feel a new layer of distance between us. I cannot afford to make that mistake often and I clench my teeth until my jaw aches to prevent my enemy escaping. My silence hurts you too but the hurt is not as bad as the stab of bitter words accidentally released, it is the lesser evil in my eyes. Sometimes I scream into the pillow until I run out of breath but there is no cure. I cannot face the suspicion that each mistake I make brings us closer to the end, I hide instead and that only makes things worse.

There is a weight on the blanket, small feline paws lightly track a path up my prone body and, after a few moments of prodding and turning, settle on my chest. I have no energy to swat our pet away so I let him sit and gradually the deep, irrepressible rumbling of his purr permeates my body and vibrates through the dark energy of my anger.

‘It’s not his fault,’ I tell the cat who snuffles closer when I speak, searching with an inquisitive nose for a way under the blanket to a hand which will find itself stroking him before I am aware I have moved. ‘I am so tired,’ I confess. ‘Why can’t I be normal?’

I have asked my self that question every day for so long, for six years at least, when living alone I would find myself writing ‘help’ in the mist on the bathroom mirror when I stepped out of the shower and saw what I had become. I am too thin, too fragile and unable to maintain my weight or my energy. My physical fragility has infiltrated my mind, taken the clarity from my decisions and brought new doubt to everything I do. I have no boldness, no character and, I often fear, no personality left inside me. I am a distant shadow of the girl who would try anything, climb any tree and swim in any frozen river just because she could.

The phone rings and you answer, your voice is muffled by distance but the sound is reassuring. I wait, holding my breath, listening to real life and longing for it. When it comes your laughter is like an explosion of gladness in the quiet house where I smother my emotions in pillows or drown them in the burning hot shower. I love to hear you laugh, it is such an honest sound with no pretence or hidden agenda, but it stirs jealousy within me. I wish I could make you laugh like that but it seems I have lost the skill. I miss your breath against my neck as you chuckle, I miss your relaxed smile which lately has become tense and guarded. I am to blame for that and I am disgusted with myself.

My grandpa always says you have only a limited number of smiles to last your lifetime and that you should save them for special occasions. He is nearly 90 and when he smiles joy flows from him like sunshine, he has plenty of smiles left and no fear of running out since he takes good care of them. Sometimes I wonder if he is right, I worry that I used too many in my reckless youth and now must be an adult with none. A lifetime will be a long time with no smiles to brighten the dark and mundane rhythm of life. I fear I will be alone, for who could bare the company of someone who has run out of smiles?

I certainly would not wish it upon you.