Everything All At Once

Women like us, we wear ourselves out. We check ourselves into mental hospitals at age forty-five, seeking some kind of rest. We, at age 23, sit in our bedrooms and cry when our boyfriends leave for work or basketball. Not because we miss them in their absence, no, actually the contrary is true. We cry to give release to all of the emotion and little stresses throughout the day. And they are little things:
I can’t run three laps around the park without having to stop and breathe for a few seconds; I’m feeling fat.
I can’t cook in time for you to eat without rushing and that’s because I was reading a novel when I should have been chopping peppers.
The people at work throw the word “rape” around like it’s not anything at all. On a busy night, they say, “We totally got raped tonight” and upon hearing this I wonder if I’ll always react with a pang in my stomach. Will I always be a victim?
The dishes in the sink are waiting for me and they certainly are not going to wash themselves.


And I look ridiculous sitting on the bed crying. The boyfriend comes in because he forgot to ask me something and he sees me wet-faced and red-eyed and I smile because maybe that will hide it. I make sure my eyes always light up when he walks into the room. I make sure I empty my arms when he approaches just in case he wants to hold or be held. I long to take care of him. It is my thankless joy, though he is appreciative. But I’m never satisfied. Women like me are insatiable.

What is this need to please? Am I sick? Are women like me sick?

He finds me crying on the bed, and I’m smiling up at him trying to hide the sincerity of my tears and whatever emotions caused them and his sweet face crumbles, his shoulders slack, and he asks, “Are you okay, Baby?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” and as I nod and smile, two more tears make their way down my face, “It’s nothing at all. I’m great.”

“Can I hug you?”

“Sure,” I say nonchalantly. But I really wish he wouldn’t. I really wish he would turn and leave the room. Don’t come any closer, Boyfriend. If he approaches, I know I’ll sob.

Between sobs I stammer, “It’s nothing. It’s really nothing at all.” And I believe this because it really is nothing, but it’s everything as well. It’s everything all at once.

And as his arms wrap around me, my hands find his back, which I rub soothingly, like I would were he the one with the wet face and red eyes. And I think, “It’s okay, Baby. You just let it all out. It’s okay.”