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© 2004-2008 Linda Escaip
"I may be grumpy, but I like you."
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The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.
Welcome to my journal, fancypaws.
Somebody Get Me A Shovel 07-Jan-2005 4:47 a.m.
Ineffable joy. I pointed to those two words when I opened up the dictionary and let my finger fall where it may. I was trying to find some inspiration, something to write about, and that's what I ended up with. So, here goes.
You know, that's a tough one. Something ineffable is too great to be described, so how can I write about it if it is beyond description? Well, crap. Since that's out, I guess I'll just write about this phone I used to have.
I hated that phone. It was my first telephone/answering machine since graduating from the answering machine model used by early man; the prehistoric kind that didn't have an attached phone and took up nearly a yard of space. Sure, that relic was pointlessly enormous and bland with no great features, but could the new one double as a desk? Clearly, no.
The new device smelled of hot plastic, and the receiver felt about as comfortable resting against my ear as would the sole of a football cleat. The texture of the receiver's plastic induced a feeling in my hand similar to the tingling, creepy feeling my hands and feet experience when I am high above the ground looking down. It's a sensation that gives you a glimpse into what it would feel like if your feet and hands could be nauseated. That, mixed with the unnatural stench of the plastic, was enough to make me long for the gigantic message box of yore.
I recall those earlier times when I would be out somewhere—maybe school, maybe the mall—and I would decide it was time to call home and see who had left some friendly words on my big machine. I would dig through my purse to find the wonderful message-retrieving device, hold it up to the receiver, and press the red button that would unleash that freakishly loud tone, causing my answering machine's tape to rewind and play some glorious messages. The message retriever also doubled as a personal siren, as its tone could be heard far enough away to alert authorities in neighbouring states of possible danger.
The new telephone did have remote access, but no portable device was needed. Instead, a simple pressing of three zeros during the outgoing message, then a three to four year wait between a series of beeps, which had to be counted before you heard the right two beeps, which would eventually rewind the tape and play your messages once you had pressed more zeros. But then you had to write your congressperson or something if you were ballsy enough to want to hear those beloved messages again. And you were stuck with the zeros—the code could not be changed. But unless someone else on the planet had the same telephone or they were some kind of genius, no one would ever figure out how to listen to your stuff, so privacy prevailed.
Another reason to long for the old dinosaur was when I used that archaic machine, people called me. I had several greetings waiting for me daily. And it was always unknown as to how many calls had come in due to the machine's one lone blinking light. If you had thirty-seven messages waiting, it blinked once every two seconds or so; the same it would blink for one message. There was mystery, you know? Sure, you could surmise the amount of calls by the length of time it took the tape to rewind, but still, if it took a while to rewind, there was always the possibility you had been left a hearty message by some longwinded friend. It was a daily surprise.
I guess the messages had started to slow down even before I abandoned my cherished message monstrosity. I fell into my first major sexual relationship when I was nearly twenty, and I became wrapped up in that, wandering away from some of my other friendships. When I say I fell into it, I mean the relationship was a steaming pile of crap, and I did in fact fall into it. Had I known that crap lay ahead on my path, I would have maneuvered my feet to travel a different road. But the thing is, the crap disguised itself and its odor until after the first year. When that time was up, fists were flying, and they weren't mine.
I had no one to talk to and experienced the most piercing loneliness I had ever felt. Out of desperation, I used my undesirable phone to call an old friend who was away at college. He listened and comforted me, and went on to tell my private confessions to some of our mutual acquaintances with whom I hadn't planned to share my story. Thank you, Greg.
Abusive relationships are tricky. For me, here was this person I had fallen in love with and had spent a year getting to know. Everything seemed pretty normal until the jealousy went from kind of cute to morbidly threatening. "You're a fucking whore" and "Do you want that guy to fuck you or something?" are not things you want to hear from the person you love. You also don't want to watch that person grab people by their shirt or slap them across the face just for glancing at you. And let me tell you, you seriously do not want them punching you in the head or grabbing your breast so hard that you can feel the pain hours later, and see the bruises.
If your self-esteem is already not that great to begin with, a relationship like that will seem to deplete what is left of it quickly, until what remains is someone you don't recognize when you look in the mirror. Loneliness can get the best of you, and sometimes being alone when your self-worth seems to have dried up feels scarier than being with someone who may or may not fly off the handle again. I was always treated to several apologies and tears, and a good round of begging: "Please don't leave me; I promise I'll never do it again." But they always fucking do, eventually.
Now, years later and and a lifetime away from that person, I am still affected by everything that was said and done. When I'm about to leave the house, if I think I look pretty, I have to battle this voice I hear in my head calling me a slut. And I still dream about that smelly, uncomfortable, nonuser-friendly phone. And when I dream of it, it is in the same place it was—forgotten—and I stumble upon it and find it blinking with one message; one message from the abuser telling me I left some stuff behind. Maybe a hairbrush and a shirt. And my fucking self-esteem. Thankfully, that's replenishable.
So, the moral of this story is stick with your old answering machine. Ah, I'm kidding. Loneliness is a far safer, more hopeful place to dwell than in a relationship with someone you cannot trust with your life. Self-worth cannot be taken away, but sometimes it gets buried beneath the dross accumulated from living. Dig down deep—it's there.
Before I send you on your way, I will tell you that many years ago I scored myself a partner so supportive, compassionate, beautiful and kind, that every day I wonder how I got to be so lucky. Thank you, Ronni, for introducing us.
It's my birthday in two days, so hell yeah.
Happy Birthday, Grandma Lily. I miss you all the time.
Well, I'm off to count my wigs like my beautiful sister counts trains. It's good to keep track of your treasures. Thanks for reading.
Linda
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