What happens what I close my eyes?

Sometimes I close my eyes I think about all the possibilities. I think about the grass and I think about the chalk I use to play with on my sidewalk. I think about hopscotch and I think about beer. I think about my grandma and going to the bead store. I think about sitting on top of the jungle gym, a memory that I’ve always had but has no context. I think about a paintbrush and the power of words. I think about the frog that sat outside my window and I think about my letter jacket, for some reason. I think about max and tennis balls on fire. I think about crying. I think about crying. I think about crying. I think about the old man who lives at the halfway house. And how he walks around, in his old man clothes. How could he be a criminal, still worthy of being babysat? I think about crafts I made with Ian and I think about mosquito bites. I think about the tire swing at my uncle john’s house and I think about getting lost in Portland. I think about Katarina and how my mom called her Kat but everyone else called her Kit. I think about Folgers coffee and how my mom used to make rice crispies every day. I think about the time I played hockey when my mom was gone. I got hurt but I couldn’t tell her because I wasn’t supposed to be playing. I think about moving. I think about the yellow tank top that I had forgotten about. And I think about my aunt Lynne Anne. I think about road trips to Nebraska. And harry potter. I think about falling asleep, probably because my eyes are closed. I think about the neighbors I have had. Rick, Bonnie, Barbara. Katie and her family. Jon and Ino. I think about porcelain dolls, and a scary clown I got for my birthday. I think about the gecko I found with Brent, and how short that kid was. I think about basketball, I thought I loved it. I think about concussions, and the girl that died a few weeks ago. I think about curtains, and bunked desks. I think about salsa mixed with sour cream and an extreme feeling of guilt. I think about a window and a Friday night—another memory with no context. I think about art and face painting. I think about the Halloween carnival, and my first kiss. I think about wall ball—at St. Johns, in Washington, and just a few days ago. I think about Travis. I think about skinny dipping. I think about Beaverton, and the say my mom told me Matt was leaving. I think about my pink soccer ball, and my black one. I think about dishwasher I forgot to load, and how much I miss my mom when I’m not at home. I think about fire. I think about max, again. I think about newspaper class and soft pretzels. I think about cheetos and cheese, and so I think about max, again. I think about my first day at Turner. I couldn’t find the gym, but Kara helped me. I think about Brittany and hope she is ok. I think about the Nuggets game. And contact lenses. I think about the red scarf and the leaves that I crunched. I think about walking around the playhouse. How old was I? I think about those two big white dogs. I think about that mall that is in my dreams, and the flamingo. I think about Italy, the bellhop, and the rainy day. I think about playing cards with Kyla, then watching the third wheel. I think about how I never slept, and now that is all I do. I think about my first interview, and my first day at work. I think about the first time I saw Travis. I couldn’t stop looking at him. I think about the people who have confronted suicide in my presence. I thank the universe for the way those confrontations turned out. I think about my dad and the bottle of Vicoden in my drawer. I think about the words I want to define myself, and the ones that do. I think about the way my stomach sank earlier, only to float up in confusion and surprise. I think about his lips on mine and his hands gripping my sides. I think about the stupid smiley face balloon. And Hanna Sudbeck who stole my lollipops. I think about being called four-eyes by someone with glasses and I think about Brandon Zigray. I think about Bobcat and the trains. I think about the power of light. I think about when my stepdad bought our TV, and when I hugged him at his sister’s funeral. He was wearing a maroon shirt and he thanked me. I think about the butterfly that flew right past my nose and I think about the little tractor sprinkler. I think about max again. He was plowed like a tractor. I think about the blue hoodie, and the turquoise socks. I think about Hood River and the wedding. I think about gymnastics and the Chilson Center. I think about Wyoming and Tesch. I think about fabric shopping, and I think about the letters I have written. I think about the northern lights. And I think about crying. And I think about the clouds and the sky and the stars and the sun and the universe. And I think about the possibilities. I close my eyes and I think and I think and I think. I remember and I think and I remember and I remember. And I smile and I frown and I think and I think and I think. And I remember. And I think and I remember because I never want to forget. I never want to forget to remember. And I never want to forget to think about the possibilities.

I thought it was gone.

I thought it was gone. That stomach twisting, that fist clenching. That quickening heartbeat that makes me want to dig my nails into something, anything. I thought it was gone. I thought it left with the feelings. I thought the temptation grabbed it on its way out. I thought it disappeared when ‘more than friends’ turned into ‘just friends.’

What is that feeling, exactly? Is it anger? Frustration? It is terrible, whatever it is. It is persistent and sneaky. And worst of all, uncontrollable.

It slowly dissipates. My fists unclench, my breath evens out, my heart slows down. Now what am I left with? Embarrassment? Sadness? Resentment?

It used to leave me with an inability to eat, and an irrepressible urge to glance at my cell phone every thirty seconds, on the off chance I may have gotten a text. It left me with an ache in my bones, a craving for control—of the situation, of my feelings, of my decisions. A craving I could never quite satisfy. I was left with resentment toward myself—that I could get so attached that something normally insignificant could have me rocked. Resentment, truthfully, that I could care about something to the point that it had the ability to take away my control. The resentment would settle, the craving would fade away. A slow and steady sadness would wind its way through me. And I would wait. I’d fight the urge to fix things (usually), and wait. And wait. And wait. And waitwaitwait. I’d shower, I’d run, I’d take a nap. I’d waste time until he was ready to fix things. And then I’d listen to a story, I’d accept an apology, and I’d let go of the control I promised myself I would grab this time.

And then things flipflopped. The situation changed, and suddenly I had all of the control. All of it. Every single last grain of control was in my hands. This wasn’t unexpected, but it was strange. And oddly unattractive. Things simmered—not too hot, not too cold. Until a simmer wasn’t enough. I turned it off, all of it, I thought. Just friends I said. That is all I want. And I thought it was gone. Until a hung up phone and a few muttered phrases had my fists clenched and my nails itching to dig. It snuck back in and shocked my system.

But it didn’t leave me with an empty stomach, or the need to fix things. It didn’t leave me with a desire for control, or resentment toward myself. It left me with annoyance. I thought it was gone. It left me with reassurance. I don’t need this anymore. It left me with wonder. What is it about him that does this to me. It left me with interest, curiosity, and a little bit of embarrassment for the unnecessary showers, naps, and runs I took in an attempt to escape.

I didn’t like the simmering, the perfect temperature to keep things going. Boring, maybe. This certainly changed the temperature. A twist of the nob, medium to hot, simmer to boil. Has he found a way to grasp some control? Have I let it out of my grip? Just Friends, I said. And he said, I Still Love You. Old habits are hard to break, old routines hard to avoid.

He was not suppose to be able to do this to me anymore. I thought it was gone.