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Authors: Juliette Caron
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to feel like they would fall off. I finally threw my soiled clothes into the hamper. The Depeche Mode shirt and boxers were stiff as cardboard and smelled like road kill. I traded them for Abby’s vintage Princess Bride tee and my own sweat bottoms.
Rose, my shrink, called twice, but I couldn’t bring myself to pick up. Janice from work called every day, leaving me a message. At first she was angry, but after a week I could hear concern in her tone. I wanted to pick up, tell her why I’d deserted her. But how do you explain it? “I’m sorry. I can’t come to work. The boy I loved is marrying my sister and my best friend is dead.” Who would believe that story? I may as well throw in that my mom broke her back and my house was robbed. I was kidnapped by aliens. Michael Jackson is back from the dead and asked me to star in his next music video.
After a week and a half she left a message, firing me and added, “You’d have to be dead to get your job back.” That last part made me laugh and laugh and laugh. You see, grief does funny things to people. When I wasn’t in a zombie-like stupor, I was crying and when I wasn’t crying, I was laughing like a deranged woman.
I craved chow mein noodles like a blues singer craves his ex and ordered them every night. I made the cute Chinese take-out boy rich with tips. (My folks sent me a check for a couple thousand bucks. They believe shopping could cure all ills.) My Twinkie stash dwindled. I forced myself to have no more than one a day. I cheated twice. I had only six beloved Twinkies left. Once they were gone, I wasn’t buying more. I had to kick the habit—I wasn’t going to let myself get fat again. (Did the nearby convenience store sell Twinkie patches?)
The TV became my new best friend. I watched all sorts of sitcoms, talk shows, fashion shows, travel logs. The nature channel became strangely soothing. I watched three documentaries on elephants and they are now my favorite animal. I saw four on sharks. Two told explicit real-life stories of perfectly nice, unsuspecting people torn to pieces by the devilish creatures. One was about a surfer girl who lost her arm. I wondered how it would feel knowing a large part of my body became a sea monster’s lunch. They say you are what you eat. The shark would then be part me. Creepy. I wasn’t sure I’d ever set a toe in the ocean again. I also watched a half a dozen home style shows. By now I had the equivalent of an associate’s degree in home design. I couldn’t wait to arrange my furniture in a harmonious Feng Shui fashion, paint my living room walls lemon yellow, add splashes of green with dozens of exotic plants.
I managed to write in my diary once during this bout of depression:
Dear Abby,
You suck for leaving me! I hate you.
(Okay, you know I don’t hate you.)
***
I dreamed of Abby every night. Three times I dreamed of her, John and me looking down the mouth of the Grand Canyon. They would take each other by the hand and jump, falling, for what felt like forever, down the endless red abyss, leaving me behind, alone. Each time I woke up screaming, followed by violent sobbing. They left me. They were gone. I missed John, but mostly I was mad at him. But I ached for Abby. Sometimes I missed her so much, it hurt to breathe.
When my Twinkie stash ran out, it gave me the much needed kick in the butt to finally rejoin civilization, because I decided I wouldn’t be able to quit cold-turkey. I’d have to buy more.
I took a long, tepid bath, using aroma therapy oils. I shaved my caterpillar legs. I gave my pores a deep cleanse with a Dead Sea black mud mask. The dead part comforted me. No sharks would be popping out of the jar. I
Rose, my shrink, called twice, but I couldn’t bring myself to pick up. Janice from work called every day, leaving me a message. At first she was angry, but after a week I could hear concern in her tone. I wanted to pick up, tell her why I’d deserted her. But how do you explain it? “I’m sorry. I can’t come to work. The boy I loved is marrying my sister and my best friend is dead.” Who would believe that story? I may as well throw in that my mom broke her back and my house was robbed. I was kidnapped by aliens. Michael Jackson is back from the dead and asked me to star in his next music video.
After a week and a half she left a message, firing me and added, “You’d have to be dead to get your job back.” That last part made me laugh and laugh and laugh. You see, grief does funny things to people. When I wasn’t in a zombie-like stupor, I was crying and when I wasn’t crying, I was laughing like a deranged woman.
I craved chow mein noodles like a blues singer craves his ex and ordered them every night. I made the cute Chinese take-out boy rich with tips. (My folks sent me a check for a couple thousand bucks. They believe shopping could cure all ills.) My Twinkie stash dwindled. I forced myself to have no more than one a day. I cheated twice. I had only six beloved Twinkies left. Once they were gone, I wasn’t buying more. I had to kick the habit—I wasn’t going to let myself get fat again. (Did the nearby convenience store sell Twinkie patches?)
The TV became my new best friend. I watched all sorts of sitcoms, talk shows, fashion shows, travel logs. The nature channel became strangely soothing. I watched three documentaries on elephants and they are now my favorite animal. I saw four on sharks. Two told explicit real-life stories of perfectly nice, unsuspecting people torn to pieces by the devilish creatures. One was about a surfer girl who lost her arm. I wondered how it would feel knowing a large part of my body became a sea monster’s lunch. They say you are what you eat. The shark would then be part me. Creepy. I wasn’t sure I’d ever set a toe in the ocean again. I also watched a half a dozen home style shows. By now I had the equivalent of an associate’s degree in home design. I couldn’t wait to arrange my furniture in a harmonious Feng Shui fashion, paint my living room walls lemon yellow, add splashes of green with dozens of exotic plants.
I managed to write in my diary once during this bout of depression:
Dear Abby,
You suck for leaving me! I hate you.
(Okay, you know I don’t hate you.)
***
I dreamed of Abby every night. Three times I dreamed of her, John and me looking down the mouth of the Grand Canyon. They would take each other by the hand and jump, falling, for what felt like forever, down the endless red abyss, leaving me behind, alone. Each time I woke up screaming, followed by violent sobbing. They left me. They were gone. I missed John, but mostly I was mad at him. But I ached for Abby. Sometimes I missed her so much, it hurt to breathe.
When my Twinkie stash ran out, it gave me the much needed kick in the butt to finally rejoin civilization, because I decided I wouldn’t be able to quit cold-turkey. I’d have to buy more.
I took a long, tepid bath, using aroma therapy oils. I shaved my caterpillar legs. I gave my pores a deep cleanse with a Dead Sea black mud mask. The dead part comforted me. No sharks would be popping out of the jar. I
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