I've been watching her for sometime now. I wonder what she's like, what she thinks about. She is a quiet woman. She can go for days without speaking barely a word. She has a quiet way about her. Mostly she moves silently from room to room, but her body sometimes makes a clicking noise when she walks due to a knee injury.
I watch her as she writes in her journal, or types upon her keyboard. Her face shows little expression. Sometimes, she cries when she writes. I can only assume it is because she is pouring out secrets on her paper because she has no one else with which to share them. I could be wrong. Her eyes may be watering because sometimes she writes in the wee small hours of the morning.
I look at her face and see a potential for beauty. She could be a very pretty woman if she tried. She's a big woman, and her skin is golden brown. She needs a pedicure, but she is not the kind of woman who treats herself to that luxury anymore, Her legs are scarred. Her right leg bares surgical scars on her knee and ankle, and both her feet have scars from what look like bug bites that she scratched. She has no waistline, having disappeared long ago with years of compulsive eating. I have seen her late at night when she binge eats. Again, her face has no expression as she eats for some reason only she and her God know. Her face is not exceptional. She has fine eyes to quote Mr. D'Arcy. Her skin is clear, but she does have freckles across her cheeks. Her eyebrows used to be dark, bold and finely arched, but they are no longer as grey hairs have crept in and disappear in the light of the sun. From watching her all this time, I would have to say her mouth was her best feature. It is a small mouth, with lips stained a dark rose color, but time has stolen their softness. They are now dry and cracked. She treats them constantly with balms, but to no avail.
I know this woman quite well. Her name is Beverly. She often goes by Bev. But, I am not she. I am Babe. I am the true self that lives inside her. I am the woman she used to be. I dress well, I drive a black convertible. I have a great circle of friends, with which I love to go to dinner and happy hour. I get my hair done weekly, and mani-pedis once every two weeks. I have my own well appointed apartment and a successful career. I have a Chow dog, whom I love to pieces, and family I adore. I am not afraid of people, and I sleep well at night. I still have bipolar II disorder, but have been stable for years.
Sometimes, I come out when she lets me. I take us shopping, to get our hair done, or go to the movies. I haven't been out in quite some time. Bev's depression has taken over our lives. We don't do anything fun anymore. All she does is sleep and write and cry. She worries all the time and trusts no one. I wish she would loosen her grip. I want to get a haircut, but she's afraid to leave the house.
Sometimes, when I watch her, I feel sorry for her. I try to talk to her about doing things we both used to enjoy, but I can't get through to her. Quite often, I hate her. I wish I could make her disappear. But for now, I wait. Sitting here detached from existence like a snowflake waiting for winter.
I learned to detach myself from her many years ago, starting when I was seven and I lay frozen on that musty carpet while he put his hands on me. I've employed detachment a million times since then in order to escape any reality with which Bev was trying to handle. The fact is she couldn't handle it, that's when she called me. I won't leave her, she's just a little girl inside really. She needs me. So, I will continue to wait and watch. Don't hurt her. If you do, I will come after you with a box full of crazy. Remember, she's Bev, I'm Babe. Don't get it twisted.
No comments:
Post a Comment