Existence Proof

I sat at work chipping my right thumb nail of the polish that remained. The rounded tops had several splits and chips forming, and there were lines running deep across each. So I kept my hands held low and out of sight. It was nearly a quarter to four and soon I would be on the 300-mile drive to my parents’ house for the weekend. Though the pause in work was welcome, I had a dreaded pit in my stomach that made my lips tight and lungs struggle. The right thumb was done, and I switched my attention to my index finger: flakes of pale pink came off slowly and without grace. It was on these summer afternoons that I readily snuck away from work with the excuse of a walk to calm my nerves. Inside all day in harsh fluorescence and record keeping of my performance, I felt no guilt making that quick walk out of the building. There was an open air theater on campus, a Shakespearean theater, constructed of wood with shaded seating that attracted me to sit to read and write. In this season, there were yellow swallowtail butterflies that passed through from time to time. Particles of dust and pollen glittered in the rays of sunlight, and the rows of orange chairs kept history of the sun’s path with sections faded and unfaded. On either side were closed metal gates with spiked tops, and above those were lanterns colored amber to give an antique feel to a structure built within the last 40 years. All was brown, tan, and black. Vines grew through the gates, through which one could see lilac bushes blooming in fragrant white and violet hues. This was where time fraud was committed nearly daily, else I might have a fit of anxiety as I was so prone to. It was a place I built with care. On other occasions, I snuck away for coffee at one of three cafés with a close friend, whose assurance and awareness of himself kept me sure of myself. Though I had known beforehand of my secret, it wasn’t until our conversations that I was comfortable with it. He’s since moved for a career across the country, but there’s still the graduation gown he left for me and the four or five books gifted and half-read in my closet (and the idolization that came with it). I can only hope to be a friend to another in a similar way, else emulate his understanding of the word. The bell tower struck four. I gathered my book and pen, laptop and paper, and left for my apartment. The last of the nail polish would have to be removed in the unpleasant way: through stifling fumes of harsh chemical remover that cracked and damaged. Weekend clothes already packed in the car, I stepped inside for a few things and hastily stripped away the last of the pink from my nails. The acetone burned my nose and made me cringe as it squeaked against my nail beds. I could feel the chemicals weaken them thinner, dryer, and my hands felt unlike my own. The horizontal lines became visible, from stress or an eating disorder or both, their gilding removed. My fingertips were numb. As I drove, the familiar college town turned rural on highways, then backways. The skyline was interrupted by rough lines of black and umber, but the onsetting pastel sunset made up for it. Utah was made ugly in my mind: the red rocks and Uintas ruined by the institutions attached to them. The barren branches, weathered and gray, still obscured my view and fell on my path, and I was traveling to the roots of this sickly tree. I would find a crumpled leaf here and there daily, a reminder of a childhood crumbled and willingly forgotten. I could always turn back, to call on a friend for a movie night and tea, to go for a walk in the dusk and see all the garden’s flowers, to have my heart’s flutter held still in the peach light through the window agap. But I made a promise to visit home—quiet phone calls and wordless texts only carried my parents and I so far. The rear-view mirror showed the mascara and eyeshadow I had forgotten to remove and some glint of highlighter too. I stopped at the gas station in Meadow, the one with too many questionable bumper stickers and confederate flags for sale. Act I for my character to rehearse for the cashier. I twice checked in the bathroom mirror for any other sign, my skin red from the rough paper towel. I left thankful that no one entered the men’s while I breathed in, held for a count of four, breathed out, held, in, held, out, held, in. The skyline turned dark. My eyes were dry from the strain of the drive. I was ready for a bed that belonged to an old me and regretted the thought of it. Mainstreet came into view, along with the thrift store I spent most of senior year in, the high school I never returned to, and the tower atop the mountain that marked the copper mine I snuck into to feel secluded. I checked my mannerisms—perhaps I’d put dirt under my nails. My parents’ front yard was as always: perfectly trimmed grass, three shade trees grafted in a Seussian shape, and the snapdragons my mother loved. I sat for a minute longer with the car running to confront the cause of the dreaded pit, Act II. I could not mention much to them or the playwright would redact my lines. There would be the talk of classes and rent, of exercise and weather, all very bland. I might mention the copious amounts of coffee I made each day, but that was pushing the bounds of shared experience. One day there would be no cracks in my nails, no lines to hide, and I might tell my parents of the first time I saw her, or them. I might say: I first saw them from across the park near where my apartment had been. We were too distant for details, but I can hear their cheery voice even now as I think of it, so brightly alien and full of color. I saw them again at the coffee shop where I would type away unfruitfully over cold cappuccinos and colder iced coffees. They had large rounded glasses that clung to the end of their nose, stylish, with an intimidating stature complimented by vertical stripes on their pleated pants. Their wavy blonde hair was cut mid-length, split askew, and wind-blown to frame their narrow and high-cheeked face. I was too nervous to talk to them, and looked through the window as they passed. Or I would say: I understood her love for Shakespeare’s tragedies, understood his love for reading Cavafy, and understood their need to find replacements for the family who rejected them. I might mention it takes days to recover when I hear a church hymn or that I fall into a depression when returning from a visit—repeating the words they said over and over again in my head. I’d tell my father of how often a comment or stare directed at another queer he saw in public was directed at me instead. The derogatory comment about shaven legs my mother made meant I would never pack anything but pants to visit. I’d talk of my inability to be intimate without a feeling of guilt hour after hour or the disgust I often felt in my own reflection. How I stare at the defect in my eye, read books so I can hide, or sit up late at night and cannot cry. I’d say that I’m irrationally terrified of being left lonely, that I’ll be at fault and fall with no support. I might say that I hate to visit, I hate to be reminded who I was, I hate to see this place I made in my memory, and hate that I cannot remember any of it unless negatively. I’d explain the emotions I felt and not hide behind another lie and tell how being called an abomination in youth made me embrace the title. I walked up the porch steps. I would talk of my love for planting flowers, for tea and coffee, for night walks and journaling. Of how the winery reminded me of autumn, how I felt euphoria on that one night in the spring, of the time I first started baking. I’d tell of how happy I was when she liked my favorite movie, or tell of the strange friendships I found myself in. I’d tell them of my partner, of the nervousness then joy of that first openly queer relationship. Maybe I’d tell of the changes I saw in my identity, of how thrifted clothing, makeup, and jewelry were an affirmation. I’d tell of my insecurities, what gave me anxiety, of that painful breakup, or of the precariousness of existing in public. I rang the doorbell. If I could, I would speak without refrain. I would say what I thought, and would rejoin my full self with this miserable fragment of an identity. I’d stop being this character I play to find the approval you deprived me. I might be whole, or I just might not visit home. The door opened. The shade of pink would remain.