Minnesota Goodbyes

Entry #38

Try. Three letters, one syllable and the hardest thing I did all day.

And though it pained me, I went into Johnston and waited to speak with an adviser (drop-in hours. I haven't gotten so productive that I'll make appointments.) There was a part of me that wanted to leave even before the receptionist called my name, before I had to face the consequences of tanking my grades this semester. Leaving. Such a sweet thought.

But.

I yelled at Lacy, fought with her. The thought of change had crept in momentarily, but after today, I'm not sure how long it will last. I waited in the too-quiet waiting room, every movement amplified. My drumming fingertips. The rustling of paper. Shifting in my seat. All agonizingly loud. All telling me to slink back home, to forget about slowly piecing my life back together.

I don't even want to write about it. I met with my adviser. We talked about 'options,' a word that sounds much more sinister when you don't like a single one of them.

It's funny how plans go astray. This morning I had such good intentions: wake up early, get to class on time, go speak with my adviser, make it to my afternoon classes. But after my meeting, going to class seemed like a marathon. Like holding my breath forever.

So, and I know you're surprised by this, I didn't go. I didn't even make it to my morning classes because it was winter-dark when my alarm went off, and I didn't want to go outside in that. But I made it to my appointment, though I mostly wish I hadn't. Do you ever have times when you know things aren't going well, but you just don't want confirmation of how low you've sunk? It's like last year when I didn't study for a quiz and couldn't really steel myself for my grade, even though I already knew the page would be marked in red.

He gave me some materials to find tutors, and a plan for the next semester. And a reminder of my even-more-likely academic probation, which made me squirm. While I've never been the most exceptional student, I've never really had to worry about grades either. That wasn't the worst of it, though, because he slipped in a tri-fold about the mental health programs at the university. Said something about stress and anxiety, and I shoved it into the depths of my backpack with the rest of the papers.

I tossed everything on the table when I got home, and Lacy, of course, picked up the one glossy brochure I wish she hadn't.

"They're good," Lacy says, holding up the Boynton Health pamphlet. "I went there last year during midterms, and they helped me out with my anxiety. The counselor was super nice."

I nod numbly and say nothing.

"Look, M., it's not an easy thing, okay? No one's saying it is, but it's a lot easier if you're not dealing with it on your own. Just something to consider."

She side-eyes the kitchen when her timer goes off, and I think she wants to say more, but she sidles out of the room guiltily to keep whatever-it-is from burning. I decline to eat with her when she offers and stalk into the bedroom, clicking the door shut behind me.

It's another little punch of anger. Not that I should be angry at Lacy, but being stressed about class is not the same thing. They're used to that: anxiety, stress, common maladies.

It's not—

Okay. Okay. How can I go to them about this? Sure, they probably understand about depression or grief, but that's not what's destroying me. Not that those things are helping, but the problem is she's dead. What are my pains compared to that?

And stupidly, I don't like those words: You need help. Of course I do. I need to not've killed her. Help me with that.

Everything else is a side-effect of that, and maybe Lacy doesn't understand that. And if she doesn't, how can they?

But still. I'm mad at myself for being mad at Lacy, and mad at Lacy for not understanding something she can't understand. How absolutely stupid is that?

It doesn't matter. I'll throw the pamphlets away and stop thinking about what can't be changed. I'll go to class and lie that everything will somehow work out and then I'll live this half-life until everyone stops asking how I am and then I'll finally be okay.

The new okay.

But once there was better than okay. And this was a hard day, but will remembering make it harder or easier? I can't tell, but I just. Just for a second, I want her to be here. I want

I should move on and keep her in the past and let the poison bleed out of the wounds until it no longer hurts to look back, but I can't wait for that. The future is a curse that keeps coming, and I will forever be plagued by it.

And when I think of her, I'll think of stars burning cold and distant. The light will still be there, but I won't feel her fierce heat anymore. Someday soon, the light will be swallowed too. And the star will be as dead as she is, and I want to feel her memory on my skin while I can.

At the beginning of the school year, Clair had put up plastic glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling. They were the kind you could get at the dollar store, and their glow didn't last very long unless you held them under the light forever. One Friday, Clair had reworked her fairy lights (using copious amounts of duct tape), so they spider-webbed over the stars. Before you came over, she peeled off the tape, and replaced them to their regular positions.

She tells you this all rather quickly, voice sped up by excitement.

"M., M., M.! Hit the light."

"Calm down." Still, you oblige, and darkness and starglow drench the room. Clair tugs at your wrist, and you both flop onto the futon.

"It's all accurate," she says, before pointing out the constellations. "That big star is the north star, Polaris. And there's Cassiopeia."

"And the little dipper."

"Right." Clair grins. "The big dipper is over there—"She gestures to the stars, and you tilt your head scanning the room.

"If it's all accurate, why are there two Saturns?"

Clair rolls to her side, head propped up by her hand. You can only really see her silhouette in the weak light. "Because they didn't have Uranus."

The memory bleeds life, and though it hurts, I am content.