Musical Interlude II
Little girl, you're old enough to understand
That you'll always be a stranger in a strange, strange land
The men are gonna come while you're fast asleep
So you better just stay close and hold on to me
Arcade Fire, “(Antichrist Television Blues)”
And if I die before I learn to speak
Can money pay for all the days I lived awake but half asleep?
Primitive Radio Gods, “Standing outside a broken phone booth with money in my hand”
I will not wake you from your sleep
Leave you wandering counting sheep
No more sad and sunshine days
Trust me dear, you're better off this way
You'll be selling books at the airport
Guster, “Airport Song”
Walking from my dorm to Blockbuster Video, I paused in front of the small Catholic church/student center. Should I become a nun? My great-aunt was a nun and she seemed to be doing alright. Clearly I was unlovable, so why not? Because I was taking a film class, I went to Blockbuster a lot, so this internal conversation happened a few times a week.
I only had a few dates in high school. Grief and homesickness made me an easy target. My roommate was a year ahead of me, so she was rarely home. Most nights were just me, huddled in the corner of my loft bed, crying myself to sleep, though sleep was usually slow in coming.
In my sophomore year, the most cliched thing happened: I met a much older man. Oh I was so mature, I was so cool. He was my partner, not my boyfriend, ugh, you can’t use “boyfriend” for someone in his thirties. I had sex and no longer entertained ideas of becoming a nun.
Sex. I enjoyed it, I enjoyed having someone to share a bed with; the physical closeness did actually make sleeping a little easier. At the same time, terrifying nightmares visited my waking self: visions of my dead father while we were doing the deed. The living boyfriend morphed into the dead man, a bachelor’s messy bed traded for an orderly hospital bed. Even then I was in therapy, trying to fix my brain, but I didn’t mention this because, honestly, what the fuck.
As the year progressed, it was clear the relationship couldn’t last. I felt trapped. He was 13 years older, he wanted to start a family. He told me I seemed like I had it together. I was 19, 20; impossible. “Airport Song” came out when I was in high school, but I thought about it a lot in relation to this guy. Left to sleep, left to a gray existence of no more sad or sunshine, take the “easy” way of marriage, kids, nothing else to worry about. Likewise, I worried I might just stumble through life, half-asleep. I never cared about money, so what could be the recompense for just. . .doing what he wanted?
This was my first romantic relationship. I didn’t know how to extract myself. I explained this to my friend Roy, who would become the boyfriend discussed here. Roy liked saving people, and I needed so much saving. He’d hold me as I cried about my father, then later tell me, “Well, I couldn’t just break up with you because you said I reminded you of your dad.” I broke up with the older man, I started a relationship with Roy, and then he came to me when I was fast asleep, to yell, to threaten.
Yeah, sex was great. Sometimes I got a little peace and sleep. But maybe I should have become a nun.
