BEING ANITA

Overly Successful

𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: 𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬, 𝐛𝐲 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥.

A pain crossed the middle of my head and the content seemed to splash to the four walls. I reached out for the painkiller and saw Asher's texts instead. "I hope you're sleeping well, Anita." I smiled at the sweet message but my lips were aching. My whole body was soring as if it had been stretched and smashed. The same had happened last year. Always after a high. I remembered being happy when Asher kissed me hard. Then, less than three hours later, I was agonizing on the bed, alone and shivering. "Sorry, I couldn't stay with you tonight," he said. "I don't know why but my headache has worsened." It was like we were sharing the same body. I could feel when he was sick, and vice-versa. I was the Queen of headaches and he was the King of migraines. I personally had them due to my University. Hours of studying were not quite harmful but stressing about assignments and exams was the death of me. As for Asher, it was a creative streak of disarrangement. "I get anxious when I'm not creating," he'd repeat while I massaged his temples. "And even more anxious when I finish something because I don't know what I'm going to do next." See that? My boyfriend was a sucker for anxiety. I was somewhat glad we shared the same illness. "You're both stressed out folks," Noah had said. Asher and I nodded, to which he shook his head and spun the wheelchair to the other way. "I tried."

Anyone could try. But we were untouchable when it came to winding down and understanding the concept of tranquility. I don't think we were ever designed to be calm. Even when I was a child. Mom always had me working on minor tasks. Asher was constantly worried about what would be the consequences of being raised by artists. And we continued living this way until our brains could no longer endure the pressure. Asher's first migraine was after dad's funeral. He said he had never felt the world so heavy on his back. Which I didn't understand at that time, but today I know that he was referring to an artistic responsibility. Octave was Asher's first inspiration. The reason he had had the bravery to pick up the guitar and face the music. The death meant a lot to him. It propelled him to break the resistance and create. As for me, I never had much trouble creating. I could whisper lullabies and write melodies in the air if one stranger in the bus asked me to. What really squished my brains out was the mandatory routine made of rising achievements and systematic obstacles. The thrive to reach the top performance at school. At college. At everything. I thought entering University would alleviate the pressure in my life, but it just got worse. And the answer was natural. I was preparing to become a doctor, not a waitress, with all due respect to their work. My mind setting was being forged to be 'resilient', to face the mission. The thing is, I wasn't a soldier, I just wanted to film Asher and go back home with him singing beside me.

Although not a soldier, I was in the middle of a war. A conflict between the well-adjusted and charming girl I was and the frail screaming soul I was giving a voice every day that went by. I was writing lyrics on little paper sheets at the back of my notebooks, and it was a festival of eerie sentiments and every damn emo situation I had sworn not to go through. And I didn't even know where these ghosts came from. My life was perfect. It was perfect because I was taught to face it as perfect. To face reality as something already conquered and perfected. That was the quickest way to achieve anything in life. But it wasn't working. The more I faced perfection, the more flaws I spotted on the way. Starting from my body. I had put up weight a few weeks before Asher invited me to, let's say, officially ask me out. I noticed when he stared at my arm a little longer. It sent shivers to my soul. I also noticed when mom checked my jeans and asked if they had shrunk in the laundry. They had become so used to my thin frame that every little oscillation was visible. At least that's what I concluded. Dad's line also crossed my mind. One could never stay at the top for too long. One could never stay thin for too long. Not if their genetics said 'rookie.' Not if their genetics said 'curvy.'