Benevolence

Chapter 28: Saging Doesn't Heal Numbness

The status, emotionally unavailable, seemed like a far cry away from me at the beginning of the semester. I expected my health to improve over the following months, but we're now in May. I fell into two random crying spells on my way to campus this morning, and now that I'm in class everything coming out of Professor Laykin's mouth seems to be flying over my head. I'm staring right at her, but not really seeing. I'm hearing her, but not exactly listening. Don't get me wrong--I want to. I really want to. I just...can't.

This past weekend has taken a lot out of me. And I mean that in every sense. Bryan's letting me stay at his for the time being; he said I'm welcome to stay as long as I want. But I'm not one to take advantage, nor am I proud of the fact that I'm figuratively homeless. Whenever I'm not at work, I'm either looking through apartment ads in the newspaper or studying for Finals--

--aren't that far away, people. If you haven't started those journal entries, I suggest you get busy," says Professor Laykin.

Though Maya, Drew, and Bryan; my personal representation of the three doorways, have all given me more than enough inspiration to catch up on my entries this week. They've also sent me spiraling through a whirlpool of emotions and dug up memories. I haven't revised any of the drafts. I'm pegging they're all pretty depressing, which won't be much fun for Laykin to look over. And I admit, it's because I'm afraid to. All were written through tears or out of anger. And each page, I'm sure, once read, is bound to trigger more of it.

"The writer tells but the writer also feels," says Laykin. "If you look over your entries and it doesn't evoke a reaction. Something's wrong; you need to dig deeper."

I almost raise my hand to ask: What if you're too afraid to look them over? But decide against it. Maybe in another world where being vulnerable is normalized, I would have. But in this one, I'll only draw attention to myself. They'll overreact and then I'll end up with a whole class of Bryans ready to send me to an insane asylum. I still haven't gotten over what he said to me. I've been avoiding him ever since.

Laykin moves to the podium, closing down the laptop my classmates and I were surprised to see her use today. She's dressed in a Baldwin T-shirt tucked into a brown pencil-skirt, and heels; and her box-braids fall down the length of her back. "If you're bold enough, get a beta reader," she continues. "Preferably one that's not afraid to call you out on your shit." She turns her back to us pulling up the projection screen to pick up a piece of chalk.

"That ass though," someone says from above me. I roll my eyes, slouching further into my seat.

I guess she couldn't resist using the chalkboard at least once for the lecture.

"Method acting isn't only used by actors you see on tv." The chalk beats against the board as she persists in writing. "It's used by everyone who lives to tell a story, for art couldn't be art without a vessel who feels deeply enough to harbor the weight of its existence."

— Unknown

"A little something to think about," she says, dusting off her hands. "I'll leave this up for the remainder of the semester. And before you ask." She dismisses all of the raised hands. "No, it's not another prompt for your entries. It's just encouragement to write without judgment of yourself or others who inspire you. You write only what you allow art to flow through you. How expansive you're willing to be--now that's all up to you." She smiles softly, scanning the class before clasping her hands and saying, "You're free to go."

Moving on autopilot, I gather my things and make for the exit. I'm so out of it, I don't even recognize who's racing towards the door until I hear the voice.