Beauty & Terror
I find it interesting that the actual second I start therapy again, the malaise pours over me like a sticky vat of molasses. At least it’s nothing new, I suppose. Rest in peace, you beautiful, shiny Bostonians.
She’s older than my last one, but not by much. She uses a notepad, an impossibly large legal one, and transcribes my difficulties—live. Binge eats. Visual learner. Can’t let anyone love him. Shantrice never used to do that. Shantrice committed my horrors to memory, and sorted them out later in the comfort of her pre-owned wine-stained sofa and self-love-printed footy pajamas. I liked to imagine her snacking on those cute little Target cheese-puffs when she typed up still not letting people in. Exercising more regularly. Hates being seen. Setting good boundaries!
My new therapist’s purse sits neatly at her feet, smooth and flat. Large enough for the legal pad, and almost certainly a pocket book (Vera Bradley, maybe?), lotion, tissues, keys to a silver Mercedes that I eyed on the way in (Shantrice drove a Chevy), journal, pens and pencils for various occasions, and hell— maybe even some paperbacks. She looks like she reads. We’ve only had one hour together, so I’m not sure of what yet. I’ll keep you posted. Her staunch, tan hands harbor tattoos of roman numerals. They’re old, the tattoos. They’re indicative of a person who appreciates order, structure, and organization. At least, that’s what Donna Tartt tells me.
I’m currently reading The Secret History . I know, I’m embarrassingly late to that one. On my iPad, on my exercise bike, at the Planet Fitness. Thirty minutes or so at a time. I have the type set to about 40pt because I don’t like to wear my glasses while I sweat. Makes me feel like I’m swimming. I’m only about 10% of the way through, but I think it finally got me today. I’ll keep it as spoiler-free as possible but, essentially, today was the Roman essence of beauty. The hand-in-handedness of beauty and terror. Completely losing yourself in the most gruesome forms. Why we gawk at car crashes and decaying raccoons and dilapidated houses. Horrible things that absorb you completely. We cannot look away.
My thirty minutes were up and I could feel everything sorting back into myself. Bones and blood and nerves and pus. I have a tooth that’s abscessed; I broke it when I was a child and nobody ever cared enough to get it figured out. That turned into me not caring enough to get it figured out, and now I’m in the trenches of figuring out insurance and calling every office around town and draining the aforementioned pus out of my mouth and figuring out how I can avoid paying $3,000 out of pocket for a procedure that will only cost $500 if I can wait a month for my insurance to kick in. Precisely two receptionists have been kind to me. One of the offices was built in solid, imposing oak, and had very few lights on. Every window was drawn shut and dusty. It smelled senile. The women in scrubs looked unsettlingly fine with these surroundings. The doctor, aged and tired-looking and likely capable of speaking many different tongues, told me my problem was not worth his time.
Soaked and heaving, I shuffled towards the lockers. I stowed away a $15 puffer jacket that I’ve worn for what seems like a decade, because it’s very frigid these mornings. I like to park far away from the building so no one has the opportunity to ding my car. The first time I wore it, an old poetry professor consumed me from dandruff laden head to letterpress ink-stained toe, sighed, and—while smiling— said, “you always have such a refined collection of colors.”
Approaching the locker room, boisterous conversation bellowed into the hall. I was immediately on guard. I had flashbacks to all the men who have screamed at me in public. Two were getting dressed, and were evidently so very happy to be alive. I relaxed.
“You got kids?” The shorter of the two exclaimed in surprise. I realized that they just spoke at this volume, they weren’t angry.
“Yea man, two of em’. My girl and a baby boy.” I smiled to myself as I found my lock. The pride was infectious.
“Daaamn,” the short one sighed. He sat on the bench and began tying his shoes. He huffed as he thrust himself forward, just barely out of shape. “You got them Covid babies, huh?”
“Naw, my girl was before all that. My baby boy though..” At that, they both erupted into laughter. The short one was elated. “Now I know that’s right. What else you supposed to do, all pent up?” There was a pause as the laughter faded and I threw my bag over my shoulder.
“I wanna get back here this afternoon,” the short one finished his left shoe. Another grunt to reach the right. “But I gotta head to my son’s school. They got him in a little honor roll ceremony. Gotta be there for em, y’know?” The tall one nodded and murmured in agreement, “That’s right, that’s right.”
I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing. But, I am so thankful that I’m not making this up. The fact that men like that exist. I’m sure they’re horrible in many other ways— we all are— but in that moment, they were perfect. I was witnessing perfection. I seriously felt like I was in a TV show. I was completely consumed by the contradiction, I bumped into the glass door on the way out. I didn’t even say goodbye to the newish young guy that started a few weeks ago who is always very nice to me and has a way deeper voice than you’d think. Donna Tartt was telling me through some deranged liberal arts college ancient Greek professor named Julian that beauty is terror. But what I saw today, the beauty right in front of my eyes, wasn’t terror. It was terrific.
I know that the point of Julian’s monologue isn’t that beauty is always macabre. There is certainly a lot more nuance to it. I think the timing just knocked the wind out of me. It was a little too convenient to read that while navigating a rotting tooth and a creative career in the face of all the world’s terrors and those perfectly mundane men plopped in front of me. It was too much for me and by the time I got to my car, I was crying. Just a little bit, one of those sniffling little drippers. Across the street, there’s this really cute food trailer that specializes in coffee and waffles. I’ve driven by it for quite literally 3 entire years without giving it a try. I wiped my eyes and, determined to enjoy the world’s beautiful beauties, ordered a very delicious honey latte.
“At least it’s nothing new,” my very new therapist said to me. In our new room wearing my new bandana and new-ish pants. New new new. At first I thought she just meant that I don’t have any new problems, just the same stuff that I was working through with Shantrice. But, she quickly followed up with “Yeah, I see these kinds of things with patients all the time. Nothing new that I haven’t seen before.”
Something about that made me want to hurl. But then, when I think of Julian and those men in the gym, it somehow all comes together like one of those A24 movies. Terr-ific.
