Interlude 5: “When I’m With You”—Best Coast

My best friend and I sat in her car outside my house, watching the pouring rain wash countless gum wrappers and cigarette butts into the gutters.

“I just don’t know.” That was all I could say, accompanied by “I hate him. I love him. I hate him. I love him.”

She shook her head. “I’ve never seen you this mixed up before. For one, you never ‘like’ anyone.”

This was true. “We have fun when we are together. Why can’t it just be that simple?”

Except, we weren’t having fun together anymore. I was trying to keep my emotional distance, by hanging out only in public places and keeping the idle chat to a minimum. And so, I couldn’t act like myself. I was someone else in his presence, someone cool (the opposite of warm, not the synonym for hip). So we couldn’t have inside jokes or laugh uncontrollably. In other words, we couldn’t even be “real” friends. I held back when we hugged. And I tried not to say anything too complimentary to him, lest it go to his already large head. Everyday I reminded myself of all of his flaws, real or otherwise. I told myself that he confused me with other girls in his mind. He knew a lot of brunettes. Of course it would never work. He would never appreciate me. I would always feel jealous. His stories would become boring. And so on. REPEAT REPEAT REPEAT.

I labeled all of these activities as “things I must do to protect myself from him.”

“I should move away,” I declared. I’ve always excelled at running away from painful situations.

My best friend shook her head. “You would miss him if you left. That’s stupid. Obviously something special is going on here.”

“I don’t want to hear that! I can’t allow myself to believe that for one moment. I can only accept what he says as the solid, unchangeable truth: we will never be together. And so, I should move away and find myself a vegan boyfriend.”

Other possible strategies: Throw myself into a career that would overshadow my heart. Write a book about him, curing myself of him once and for all. Fall in love with someone else (this seemed unlikely). Get my insurance to cover a lobotomy.

My thoughts were turning into frantic circles.

“Oh god, I’m drunk.” I was lying. I hugged her goodbye. I ran upstairs to my bed, choked down two sleeping pills without water (because I was too lazy), and fell into a dreamless sleep.

The alarm woke me seven hours later. I opened my eyes.

“I could fake my own death,” I said to my cat. “I could change my identity. Board the next flight to the southern hemisphere. Join the army. Sign up for some kind of medical testing that would require months of isolation.”

REPEAT REPEAT REPEAT.