How to Love Claire Mason

Numb

"Claire, you need me."

His eyes are large and expectant. He is waiting for his words to sink in. Waiting for me to feel.

It is that nameless boy from the group again, reaching out, trying to get close. What he doesn't realize is that no one can. Get close, I mean. Because closeness involves feeling, something that is now beyond me.

He is tired of waiting.

"I mean, I don't want to be rude, but you...you have no friends." He bites his lip, expecting his words to hit me hard and cause an explosion of emotions. And they do, but it is a minor explosion, one that's happening in a far off part of me I no longer feel connected to. It's like a bomb that goes off so far away you only hear a faint, almost inaudible boom and feel the smallest of vibrations beneath your feet.

But I know he is expecting more. Anyone would. And I know this all too well. I have to muster up some anger, fake feeling. Because that's what everyone wants to see. It's natural, normal. Yet I can't give any real emotional display. There's no rawness, no honesty in what I can give. But then again, they never said don't you fake it.

I force my hands to clench and release, a typical reflex when one is enraged; to come up and connect with his chest, pushing him away with an anger I once felt so often, but can only dream of what it would be like to feel it now.

"I don't need you. You don't know what the hell you're talking about. I have friends." The words, which are surely ones I would have said in this situation, feel foreign to me, a new spice on my dry tongue. I feel no connection, to the words, to the anger I'm showing him. I'm not angry. I am not indifferent. I'm not anything. I feel nothing. But I'll keep faking it. Because he will keep pushing.

"Face it, Claire, I'm right. Jacquelyn said you shut her out. You're shutting everyone out Claire." His arms are crossed. He wants an argument, a backfire of harsh words. I'll give him one. I know just the right lines to say.

"Me shutting people out? There's no one to shut out, and if anything, I'm the one being shut out. Ever..ever since he..he left..everyone shut me out. As if..as if I am nothing without him. I'm like..like a blank wall or something. He was a..a fancy work of abstract art that..that hung on me until he was taken down. Everyone loves him, they think he's the shit. Oh he's so funny, he's so unique, he's just so goddamn cool. And what am I? None of that. I used to be. You know, when I was with him, I was..I was myself. I got to be the funny, "cool" girl I am inside sometimes that only comes out when I'm brave. He..he made it feel okay..for me to be me. Like he gave me reassurance, validation. Confidence. That's something I never have, never have had. But that left with him. He, he and the whole crew of them, they made me think I was something, for once, that I was someone. But take him away, and I'm nothing. Just another bitch to stab in the back. And no one...no one can see the mark he's left behind. Now...now I'm empty. I..I don't feel anything anymore. I felt that way with him, but I thought of it as more of an ecstasy happiness kind of thing, rather than numbness, you know? But..now that he's gone...that's all that's left. Numbness. I'm just going through the motions of life now, not feeling anything. I'm so..fucking detached. It..it scares me."

My voice became very low at the end. I'd said too much. Those were not the lines I'd planned on reciting. But I had to tell someone about the feeling. Or rather, the not feeling. It is a lonely endeavor, trying to make sense of it. I can't understand it, much less expect anyone else to. Hell, I can hardly explain it without sounding insane. But it felt good to tell someone, to get it out of my head. Breathing feels the slightest bit easier. The weights, all those heavy weights he left, they're still there though. Those aren't leaving. Yet I still have one less weight to carry, and for that I should feel grateful. If only I could feel.

The poor dude's the picture of puzzlement and confusion. He is probably almost as lost as I am. I throw in a quick "I'm sorry" in attempt to relieve him a bit. He clears his throat, a sound louder than any word I've uttered so far.

"Claire, I'm sorry. I don't get what you mean by all that, but listen, you need to raise your self esteem. Like, a lot. And by the way, you speak really..creatively...you should be a poet. It might be a good outlet for you, you know, writing poems and stuff. Yeah. You should try that," he, to my dismay, pats my shoulder as he strides past me, "Well, see ya."

"Raise my self esteem". Tell me something I haven't known for the past three years after having anorexia that's practically caused by low self esteem.

And a poet? Who the hell would want to read a poem written by someone with no real emotions? And 'see ya?' Is that how kids handle things these days? What am I saying. He doesn't need to handle anything. I can take care of my own shit. I'm no one's burden. I only carry them.

I could have lifted another one onto this strange kid. I could have dropped the ball. The big 'truth.' Not even Jacquelyn's heard it. That is safe in the trash of Room 502. And even that's not the whole truth. It's gotta stay inside. Then again, would it make much difference if it got out? Would I feel anything?

Perhaps there's nothing left for me to feel. Perhaps he drained me dry. I felt so much; love, happiness, security, confidence, worthiness- feelings I'd never known. And I'd also felt hate, hurt, pain, confusion and loss of control of course. But that came later. Maybe it was all just too much. And now there's nothing left. Maybe I'm afraid of feeling too much again, because of how it left me. And so I shut it all down, turned it all off, to keep myself from feeling so much that I'd break. But that's only a theory.

God, I'm so fucking numb. I don't know how much longer I can go on not having emotions, cares, feelings. Life for me now is one long, lucid dream.

That boy, that sick, sick boy that broke me. He was one strong dose of anesthesia that won't wear off.