the farce

Bzz. Bzz. Bzz. My alarm goes off and I jerk awake, groping in the dark for my phone. I hit snooze and sit up, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and grasping at the fragments of the dream I’d just woken up from, remembering it had been unusually pleasant. I try unsuccessfully to yawn off the pasty morning bitterness in my mouth as I run my tongue over my teeth. 7:30. It feels way earlier and I’m less than excited to actually get up. I have things I have to do but I’m definitely not about this life. And in all honesty I’m kind of struggling just to live at all.

Reluctantly I slide off the side of my lofted bunk and wince as my ankles crack on the floor. I don’t want to turn on the light because I’m not ready to deal with the daily “let’s get blind again” cycle but I know I probably should. I flip it on and squeeze my eyes into slits for a few minutes, gradually opening them as I try to get used to the light. Shuffling into the bathroom, I grab my toothbrush and squish out some toothpaste. Some of it slips off into the sink and I roll my eyes, then glance up at the mirror as I brush my teeth.

“Hey, that’s not awful,” I think to myself as I look at my reflection. My longish light brown hair is messy but not matted or tangled and my gray eyes, though sleepy, aren’t full of the dull pain I’ve become used to seeing in them over the last several weeks. The purplish dark circles haven’t left their post above my cheekbones, though, and it almost looks like they’ve grown deeper. I cringe a little and hope a bit of foundation will help take the edge off.

I finish up in the bathroom and shuffle back to my little self-created paradise of a dorm room. Christmas lights glow in quiet but friendly and soothing colors on three of the four walls and a pastel-tinted wax warmer gives off a sweet lemon tang. I breathe in deeply and rub my eyes. I’ve got a lot ahead of me, and I’m honestly just not feeling it. It’s not that I can’t do it.

Twenty minutes later I swing my backpack over my shoulders and take one last glance around my room to make sure I have everything. Aspirin, check. Water, check. Lavender, check. I sneak a quick peek in the mirror behind my door and manage a slight grin. I’m not a fashion plate, not by a long shot, but I’m well put together for once and it does make me feel more confident. Well, that better be everything.

I let the door close behind me and head for the common living space shared by thirteen other girls. Benefits of dorm life. 22-year-old Layna is draped across one of the lounge chairs, her almost six-feet-long frame looking like a willowy elf princess and her dirty blond braids making her look far younger than just 22. She sees me coming out and glances up from her phone, sticking it in her pocket. As usual, she’s been playing Sudoku. I chuckle. She looks up.

“You ready, Nic?” she asks with a genuine smile. I release a rare one in return and nod. Layna is the one person I would ever fully trust with all of me, under any circumstance and at any cost. She’s safe-and she knows I’m safe, too. She slips her arm through mine and we hit the staircase, facing the day whether we like it or not. At least we’re facing it together. I sigh a little heavier than I mean to. Layna looks over her shoulder at me.

“Something on your mind?” she asks. “You’re quieter than usual.”

I shrug and avoid looking up at her. I’m quiet by nature, but my speaking voice is loud. So people assume things about me that aren’t fully accurate. Only Layna really knows that my reverting to brashness is a defense mechanism. I’m hoping to keep it that way for a while. It’s not time for me to let down my walls just yet.

“The scene I’m working on for that performance class is going to be such a bear,” I said, opening the door as we leave the building. I suck in the cold air and let it freeze my nose and lungs, despite the fact that I already know it’s going to hurt in a matter of seconds. It does, and I bite my lip and wince at my own stupidity. Nothing I haven’t done before.

“You know you don’t have to do it if it bothers you that much,” Layna told me. She reaches for my hand and I let her take it, grateful for her presence.

“I know,” I said. “But I’m going to have to do scenes like this in real life, if I decide to pursue an acting career in the future, so I may as well get used to it now, right?”

Layna’s brow furrows a little but she doesn’t try to argue. She just looks steadily at me for a minute until I look away. I know what she’s going to say next.

“Don’t be afraid to stand up for yourself, Nic,” Layna reminds me. “It’s not easy most of the time, but it’s ultimately going to be worth it. Besides, actors aren’t supposed to perform in scenes that are too close to home for them anyway, not when they’re just beginning, anyway.”

I shrug. She’s right. I don’t really want to play the victim in a violent scene. It’s been a hard last several weeks for me, trying to struggle with my past, present and future in ways that most lower middle class girls from white families don’t have to. Christian evangelical white girls who grew up with what looked like a normal home. That scene made me uncomfortable from the beginning, especially since it was just so close to home, but I felt awkward trying to get out of it.

“Well...there’s got to be some way for me to work it out,” I say, my voice catching in my throat a little. “I don’t want to be unprofessional. It’s been a week. Isn’t it a little late for me to be changing my mind about my scene study?”

Layna raised an eyebrow. “If it’s going to hurt you, it’s something you should try to change,” she says gently. “It’s your decision, but at least think about it.”

“Yeah, I will. I have been,” I whisper. Looking up at her, I feel my eyebrows scrunching together as I anxiously lock eyes. If there’s anyone who really knows me, all of me, and still loves me like hell in spite of it all, no matter what, it’s Layna. She smiles reassuringly and I feel suddenly warm and sunny, despite the dull 40-degree weather of the early morning.

Layna squeezes my hand and we walk together in silence for the next several minutes. It’s a grayish day with a slight chill, the kind that makes you want to sit inside and read a book while cupping a hot mug of something sweet. The air hangs over my head in light fog and I inhale sharply, trying to wake myself up. The brick buildings on campus seem uninviting yet simultaneously unthreatening. But when I think about going to class it feels like getting swallowed up into a chasm of bland brick nothingness. Obviously that’s the very last thing I want to do, and knowing that I have to face it makes me cringe.

My chest squeezes itself and I take another sharp breath. Layna doesn’t say anything but her grip on my hand tightens and she gently strokes my hand with her thumb. Reluctant tears sting my eyes at her gentleness and I scowl, using my other hand to wipe them away. I feel a little steadier but still don’t want to keep going. I have a lot of thinking to do. I want to do the right thing, but when I’m knowingly preparing for a career that will force me out of my comfort zone, I’m hesitating to try to back out of this scene because I’m probably not going to have a choice about it once I enter my field.

On the other hand...well...I want to be a part of telling stories like these. Stories like mine. Stories that don’t get told half as often as they should because it’s taboo to tell them. Because despite the fact that people are getting hurt, there’s still so much shame and stigma surrounding them, and no one really feels comfortable talking about it. But these stories need to be told. If they aren’t, nothing will change for the better. Someone needs to be brave enough.

But should that someone be me, here, now? I’m better than I used to be, but I’m still strangely affected by the aftermath in painful ways that are all too real and hurt far too much. Things have changed, yes. Distance has given me a certain level of protection. I haven’t been in the heat of the moment in months. I know I’m okay. People keep telling me to remember that. “You’re safe now,” they tell me. I try to believe them. I really do. But I feel as though, at least for now, that I’m probably too close to the situation to take on the role of a hurting young woman. I’m walking her path already, right now, this moment. I am that girl.