Page 73 of Submissive Lies

The one thing that had held at bay the full weight of my despair and self-loathing during the afternoon was the thought that maybe, just maybe, if I could speak to Steve, I might be able to convince him I could be truthful, at least once. I would lay all my cards on the table, tell him with every bit of honesty and candor what had happened with me, and why I had done what I had.

And now that was gone. Not a chance in hell of that happening.

I don’t remember how long I stood there. I know I didn’t cry. One hand on the reception counter, I leaned against it as every part of me drifted away into darkness. A simple sound broke me from my reverie. A cleaning person somewhere nearby was already at work, and the vmmmm of a vacuum being run across the floor finally caused me to move. I looked slowly around myself, and then I was walking. I walked, and the next time I was aware of where I was, I was stepping into the lobby of the Hyatt.

That was when the tears started.

Why they started then I couldn’t explain. Maybe it was because I remembered when Steve had picked me up in this very lobby two nights ago. The night that had been so incredible that even now thinking about it tore like claws ripping through flesh. I felt my eyes brimming, and then tears were spilling down my cheeks as I hurried across the floor. There were so many people there from the show, gathered together and talking, laughing. I ignored them, moving across the lobby until I was in front of the elevators. I kept my face down, watching in fascination as my tears fell and landed like tiny beads of glass onto the polished marble of the floor. I felt completely disjointed from my surroundings. All I could see was those drops falling, moving as if in slow motion. My vision wavered, blurring the sight of the splash and spread of each one as they impacted with the tile. When the bell sounded for an elevator God took pity on me, and I slipped into one alone. I punched my floor number. The door slid closed before anyone else got in, and I choked out a sigh of relief. I could see myself in a mirrored section of the wall. I wanted to see some monster, some hideous being that reflected the way I felt inside. It wasn’t there. It was just me. Red eyes, wet streaks across my cheeks. An empty shell that had once been a human being.

That was the moment I hit rock bottom.

I got to my door, fumbled for my keycard, got it in on the second try. Reeling into my room, I let the door close behind me with a click. I did not reach for any lights, but simply threw my bag to the floor, and collapsed on the bed.

And then I really cried.

I lay there and cried. Despair hollowed me out for what I had done to Steve. For what I had done to Thomas. And then I cried for what I knew I still had to do. Eventually, I cried for myself. For what I had done to me. I curled up on the bed, and into myself. I grieved over the memories of what had taken place over the past two days. Accepting the misery that came from acknowledging the consequences of my past decisions had culminated in what had taken place on the booth floor this morning. Tearful recognition that I had to take ownership of them. There was no lessening of the pain in any of this. No sense of catharsis. I knew what I had done. I knew what I still had to do. And fuck me if it didn’t hurt so goddamn much.

At some point I got up and took a shower. Afterwards, I wrapped myself in a towel, and climbed back into bed. I didn’t feel as if I was in control of my body, but that someone else was inside me, running the show.

Just get under the covers. Fuck PJs, just burrow deep. Eyes closed. I’m shutting you down for your own good.

And I did. I collapsed into sleep. My dreams were all anxiety, fear, and an almost crushing tension. I slept, not awaking until my alarm went off at 5:30. To begin another day.

It would be nice to say as I got up and went about getting myself ready for the coming day that I pulled myself together. That I put my ‘big girl’ pants on and did everything I needed to do to move on. But that would be another lie. I struggled. I skipped my morning workout—a mistake. I drank coffee I picked up from the hotel restaurant but skipped breakfast—another mistake. I did, however, manage to drag myself over to the booth and get there on time somehow. I slapped on my professional work face, got Keith and Toby started on wiping down the exhibit, and I tried not to see Steve in every glance of gray shirts. When the rest of the staff showed up, I made every day idle chit-chat, let Samantha know how much I appreciated the alone time of the previous night, and got the show up and running for the second day. It wasn’t my finest work, but I made it through the day. I had only one breakdown where I fled to the bathroom, sitting on the toilet and crying for a few minutes. I pulled myself through it. Bore down and got my head back in the game. And though the day was long and my thoughts as unfocused and disjointed as they had been the day before, I made it to the end in one reasonably cohesive piece.

After the show was tough. It didn’t go as easy as I had hoped it might. As much as I wanted to beg off going to dinner with my co-workers once again, I knew I couldn’t. Corporate politics being corporate politics, I knew I’d be treading a fine line if I tried to skip going out with Samantha and the staff a second night. This would be the last chance for us to have dinner together, as the show was closing the next day. Once the tear-down began I would be busy, so it was tonight or never. And while I would have much preferred the ‘never,’ that wasn’t a realistic option.

“So, Jen… Thomas has told me so much about you!”

I winced internally. I was trapped at dinner with Samantha, and this was going to happen whether I liked it or not. And there was no viable exit strategy here.

“Well, I hope it's all been good!” I gave her a bright, fake smile, masking my chagrin.

Samantha reached over and patted my hand. “Oh, it’s been nothing but wonderful! It is so good to see he finally found someone as incredible as you!”

Yeah. Great. She had a scalpel, and was carving me into pieces, and she didn’t even know it.

Somehow, I made it through the meal. Smiled when I was supposed to smile, laughed when it was appropriate, and I didn’t break down into tears or scream when a part of me so desperately wanted to. I even managed to be gracious when Samantha pulled me into a hug and told me how wonderful it was to finally get to talk with me. How she was so “looking forward to working with me”, and “how lucky Thomas was.” She had carved me up emotionally, but outwardly I held it all together. I clutched at the bloody pieces of me until I made it back to my room.

And then I fell apart.

I collapsed on the bed and sobbed. I curled up and cried until exhausted. I drifted in and out of sleep for some time after that, switching back and forth from crying to tension filled torpor, and then back to weeping again. Eventually I forced myself up and undressed, heading to the shower. I leaned against the wall of the enclosure, and then let myself slip down until I was curled up at the bottom, squeezed into a far corner. The water pounded down on me like a million tiny fists, and I cried. I cried until there was finally nothing left. I was empty, and in its own way that was liberating. Finally, I stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel, and as I dried myself, I gazed into the mirror, staring at the person who stared back.

It was just me. Nothing more. Just the person I was, looking back, exhausted.

I wiped the last of the water from my hair, dropping the towel unceremoniously to the floor before walking back to the bed. I crawled in, pulled the covers over my head, and fell almost immediately into a dreamless sleep.

The next day passed in a blur. I’d thought I’d spend most of it in self-reflection, contemplating my past and future—except I didn’t. I just moved from one thing to the next, and in between my mind was a blank slate. At some deep, core level I knew what challenges faced me in the coming days and weeks, but for the moment I was a spent force. I had no energy for any of it, and the best I could do right now was pull my work face on and make it through the day. Everything else would come eventually, and I would face what I needed to face, but for now I needed a vacuum, and that’s what I created for myself.

The end of the show was a celebration of sorts for my co-workers, but for me it was just another checkbox ticked off on my list of things that I could put behind me. I made big smiles when I needed to, accepted the praise and accolades from everyone on what a great show this had been, and before I really had a chance to process it, they were gone. In the past, the close of a show often left me feeling melancholy. This time it was different. There were no wistful feelings. Only a finality that was neither oppressive nor liberating. It was just done. Over. Keith and the crew arrived to begin the dismantle, and I went about my job efficiently if perfunctorily. We would only work a four-hour minimum tonight, so I knew what to expect we’d get done. A part of me began thinking of Steve, fixating on the fact he wasn’t here, but I pushed the thoughts away. I wanted nothingness. Just clear mental space where I could operate on autopilot. The past was over, and the future would handle itself in due time. For now, I simply wanted to be.

We finished up for the night, and after the crew was gone I took stock of where we were. They’d done a good job. We were exactly at the point I’d expected us to be, if not slightly further along. Tony had stopped by just before the end of the shift to check up and see how things were going. I started to ask if he’d heard from Steve, but stopped myself. Why would I? To Tony and anyone else Steve was just another worker. An installation and dismantle supervisor on an exhibit for a show that was over and done. He was gone, replaced by another who had performed just as efficiently. Why would I ask about Steve? Why should I care?

So, I didn’t ask. I thanked Tony for everyone’s hard work and then let it go. Tomorrow they would be back and we would finish the dismantle. After that the exhibit would be packed on the trucks to return to the warehouse. And I would head home.

To Thomas. To fix the final thing that needed fixing.

I ate dinner by myself in the hotel restaurant. After finishing my meal, I went to my room, showered, and then packed most of my things. I still had one more night here after this, and then the following morning I would be on my way to the airport, heading home. It felt right to be preparing, making the motions to move away from this room, this place. When I completed packing, I sat in a chair looking out the window at the lights of Chicago, to the edge of the waterfront, the water of Lake Michigan beyond. Even though the final day of the show was behind me, I didn’t allow myself to obsess over everything that had taken place beforehand. I kept my mind as blank as I could. The demon that was my self-destruction was there lying in wait, and it clamored to be let loose. To tear at me and drag me down to its level. It smelled blood in the water, the raw meat that was my psyche. But it was patient. It knew—I knew—that there would be opportunity aplenty for it to rip me apart later. For now, it only needed to bide its time, knowing I would eventually unlock the chains so it could run loose.

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