August 10, 2002
Panic Attack
A moment ago I was sitting in my desk chair, pink pajama clad legs drawn up, with my journal propped on my knees. The new reading glasses were perched ever so inelegantly on my nose, and my lips were pursed in thought.
I browsed www.plannetparenthood.org. Does ninety-nine plus ninety-nine plus ninety-nine equal at least one hundred percent?
More calluses last night. His words were like splinters, burying themselves into soft skin.
"I always imagined that I'd be with more of a party-goer."
"So you're saying that you have a problem with my not being a social butterfly?"
"A little."
"Deal with it."
I hid my hurt with indignation. My defences were sharp. I won't pretend I'm not sensitive to reach some ideal perception he has of me.
He tried to take my hand. He looked at me with those big brown eyes full of pity.
I detangled my fingers from his and looked away.
"Really. I'm fine."
We arm-wrestled. He kept me at bay, allowing me to expend my energy in a vain attempt to push his fist down. Then he almost effortlessly won when he got it into his head to try.
Why do I feel like this is a metaphor for something?
This is all strange to me. I both relish and resent his honesty. I don't want him to lie to save my heart from constricting. I'm mad at him because I can't stay mad at him.
Later, his back is to mine, there is candlelight and almost-sleeping. The air is thick with dreams. I'd like to think that they weren't all mine.
"You know, I try to think about things differently." I whisper, almost burying my face in his shoulder. "But I just admire people for what they already are. And if I don't like it, I just accept it."
He made some small sound of understanding. Maybe he spoke. I don't remember.
I hope he was listening.
I told him I didn't expect anything out of him.
He asked if that was a compliment or an insult.
I don't even know if that's the truth.
astera at 2:02 p.m.