Asymmetrical Absolution
A Lyric Essay by Elena Vaughn
My voice is trapped behind the boulder in my throat, fighting its way around what is buried most days.. I push the jagged boulder off of my vocal cords enough to breathe. Inhale, accept what I’m worth. The exhale The infinite, unfeeling space below me simply absorbs my anguish, without even the courtesy of an echo.
I carry the weight of uncertainty, confusion, of putting others at ease. I push my best traits to the center of attention, praying to deflect the invítale questions. . I scream until my throat burns, my face drenched in shame, anger, exhaustion. I have never played the regular games of society-who would want to anyway?
But the more I scream, the quieter the crowd gets. There is no crowd. I’m not in a circus show. The only prison is the mirror. This truth burns, forcing me to look into my own eyes. To see the weight behind the eyes. . I see my left eye staring back at me, while my right eye wanders, in search of absolution.
My therapy appointment started off well enough. I heard the clock tick by, one second following the next like soldiers, anchoring me in this moment. The lamp in the corner added a soft glow to the room, guarding against the gray and drizzly day. Janet probed carefully, and I wasn’t spooked by her inquires.
I sat up for a break and poured water from a plastic bottle into my reusable one. In a flash the water spilled onto my blanket. I didn’t care: it was water. It wouldn’t stain anything. She came back and noticed the spill. “Oh, I thought only little kids did that,” she laughed.
A wire tripped, a pin pulled from the grenade. I screamed “You called me a kid! I have spent my whole life trying not to be that!” She didn’t understand why I’m suddenly so sensitive, although. she’s spent the last thirty minutes deliberately pushing my neurological buttons. I’m done with this. Not even my therapist takes me seriously. Who would? I let my tongue hang like a dog, I drool like a toddler, and I speak as if I am perpetually drunk. The weight of these realizations pushes me into the chair across the room and I am sobbing and hyperventilating. I stare into the defiant lamp that will not be quenched by my tears. Resentments, like the sharp chunks smashed off a boulder, squeeze through my eyes. Resentment at my body’s failure to be “typical”, at my continual lack of awareness, at my complete social awkwardness. Other resentments only I know, these choke up my throat and blur my vision. I cannot numb or outrun my own inadequacy, my own fucked-up face. I’m choking, but I haven’t eaten in four hours. A fire radiates from my core, burning away any good traits. I can’t get enough water.
I am continually bewildered by how much emotional weight we carry just below the surface of everyday life. My friend has a saying: “We all have baggage. Are you going to carry it in a duffel bag or a purse?” I envision myself with a purse, but beneath my confidence and competence are twenty-pound insecurities that threaten to destroy my reputation at a moment’s notice. The bag barely fits behind my back, pressing incessantly against my shoulders, hunching me over.
I’ve poured out so much scalding anguish over the years, but I am tired. I want some peace. I can’t fight myself forever. The suitcase slowly lightens, no longer digging into my shoulder blades. I take a deep breaht. Inhale. Accept what I am worth. The air is cooling, fresh stream water. I’ve never been “typical” but what is typical? No one sees my flaws as closely as I do, and they blur my vision. If I strip away the scales, I see my loyalty, my curiosity, my intuition. My resentments lied. I’m not perfect, but I’m still pretty good. I might even be great.
The truth burns, forcing me to look into my own eyes. My left eye stares back at me, and my right eye does too.A soft sigh and a smile. I have found my absolution.
