Work Text:
11/08/2016
I feel that I’m not standing on my own two feet anymore.
These feet—these two, the ones I see when I look down.
These are mine?
They can’t be.
You know that voice in your head?
The one that says horrible things that you don’t even consciously think?
Like, when you’re standing on a subway platform.
And you look over and see a person a few feet away.
They’re on their phone, or talking with a friend, or nodding their head to the music flowing into their ears from their headphones.
And then you feel the rumbling from the approaching train.
The voice, the horrible voice in your head says,
What would happen if I pushed them
And for a second you actually entertain the thought of pushing a stranger, a totally innocent bystander, in front of a moving subway for literally no reason.
Well, that voice has gotten very, very loud.
Pick up, I will her, as I hold the phone to my ear.
Please, please, pick up.
And she does.
“Hey,” I say, before she can greet me, “please tell me this isn’t real.” My voice is shaky and maybe she can feel my tears through the receiver.
“I’m sorry,” she replies. “I’m so sorry.”
There are certain things I believe in.
Those things are the reason that I’m strong, that I’m powerful, that I like to wake up in the morning and look at myself in the mirror.
I like looking at my reflection.
I like myself, because I know what I believe in and I feel it.
I believe in loving people. It’s why I keep my doors open, why I open my arms to hug strangers and why I introduce myself with a smile to every single person I’ve ever met.
I believe in working together. I’ve never been able to do anything alone—and I don’t think I should be able to. That’s not really the point. The point is for different ideas, different perspectives to come together and make something beautiful, something that nobody would ever be able to make alone.
I believe in trying to understand people. It’s not just about tolerance. I hear that word all the time, you know, “be tolerant.” But it’s not about tolerance. It’s about really trying to understand. Talking to people, understanding differences and appreciating them, because every single individual person has something special and wonderful to contribute to the world.
I believe in talking to people.
I believe in sharing things.
I believe in really, really good international food.
I believe in so many things, so many things that have helped me grow, helped me be proud of who I am.
But, looking at myself in the mirror today, I don’t see those things.
I want to hold your hand,
But I don’t really think I deserve to right now.
“This can’t be happening, right? It was supposed to be you.”
“I’m sorry,” she repeats, “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t let them make me a monster.”
I’ve been crying for hours.
I don’t usually cry this much.
The mountain upon which I stand, the one made of all those beliefs, has crumbled.
I’m falling—falling really fast, down to god-fucking-knows-where.
I thought it was so strong!
I thought it would only get stronger!
But there were cracks I didn’t notice, and the cracks got bigger (I should have fixed them when they were small but they were never really small were they?) and now the cracks are destroying the entire mountain.
Monsters crawl out and scratch at my ankles.
It’s a weird feeling.
Finally realizing that I’ve been delusional for centuries.
The mountain was never really there at all, was it?
Every four years, on the Tuesday after the first Monday of November, I disappear for a little while.
There’s a room, cozy and warm and totally isolated from the rest of the world, where I sit and I let the battle within my soul play out.
It’s always a horrible, amazing, terrifying, exciting day. When the millions of voices I have twirling around in my head start to get loud, and I feel I have thousands of personalities within my mind. I feel torn in hundreds of directions, so all I can do is sit in this room and count and count and recount the tiles of the ceiling, the fringes on the rug, the nameless books on the shelves, anything to get me through this day.
I like it.
I’ve always felt good.
I don’t feel good now, though.
Not on November 8, 2016.
“It’s not fair. It’s not fair, is it? Someone made a mistake, maybe—”
“Nobody made any mistakes,” she says. “In fact, I can’t believe you’re surprised.”
I generally have a pretty good relationship with my bosses.
I like some more than others.
Obviously Kennedy was nicer to me than Truman.
(God I hate Truman.)
I got along better with Abe than Papa Bush.
(It’s not true, what they say. That he never told a lie.)
Reagan showed me the best movies.
Bill paid me to keep his secrets.
(She knew the whole time, though.)
Teddy taught me how to hunt.
George W. Bush told amazing jokes.
(Meanwhile Lyndon didn’t laugh the entire time he was my boss.)
Washington was my best friend.
Jackson was the bane of my existence.
I guess I’ll admit now that I love my current boss.
He has his flaws. Everyone does. I have mine, too. I’m loud, I’m annoying, I eat too much, I pester people while they try to work and a lot of the time I’m just too horny for my own good. He has his issues. He can be really spineless. He lets people influence him in ways that he doesn’t like. And he gets pressured really easily—I’ve seen stress change him in ways I haven’t seen it change others.
But he’s been one of the best bosses yet.
He’s kind,
He’s compassionate.
He speaks to me in a gentle tone, he listens to me, he sends me memes when I’m sad and he mourns with me when I’m hurting.
I love him, I really do.
I’ll be terribly sad to see him go.
I knew it was over when I heard a knock on the door.
I said, Come in, and I tried to sound composed for some reason.
It was him. He came in with a somber look on his face, and I knew right away.
“Well,” he said with a sigh, “it’s done.”
“You don’t mean...?”
“Would you like to meet your new boss?”
I don’t want to meet him, and I didn’t want to meet him then, so I said no.
I’ll meet him when he walks through the doors of the oval office and forces me to shake his hand, the same hand that tore down my mountain and made the horrible voices in my head louder, louder, louder. I can hardly hear the good ones.
I’ll admit, I’m biased.
I already know her. Well. I know her because I worked with her.
She travelled, and I travelled with her, and we worked together.
When I was angry with my friends across the oceans, my neighbors across the borders, she talked me down. She always gave me window seats on the airplanes. We became friends.
She’s awfully smart, and very graceful. And she’s so competent—holy fuck she gets shit done like I’ve never seen anyone get shit done. Kissinger should kiss her feet.
She has her flaws, too. She’s made a lot of mistakes. She’s been in the system a long time, and I think she lets that get to her, corrupt her, but she’s definitely not the only one. I’m corrupted, too. We’re all corrupted. But, really, she’s been doing this for a really long time.
The point is, I was desperate to work with her again. Someone with such grace, such poise, such elegance that I don’t have. Someone who could reign me in and keep in check, but give me the room that I need to breathe.
Someone who would enable the kind, accepting voices in my head.
Encourage me to keep my arms open—
my new boss is telling me to keep them closed
Everything hurts.
Everything hurts like hell.
My limbs are not my own, these tears not my own.
But this pain—this pain is only mine.
It is the pain of feeling myself torn apart completely and unapologetically, of someone pointing a finger and saying, See, I told you so, You Are A Monster.
Have I always been like this?
I don’t know.
“What about next time? You can do it next time...?”
“I don’t think so.”
I am hurting.
Fuck, I am hurting.
Touch my head—it hurts.
Touch my arm—it hurts.
Everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.
Where...?
Where did all those beliefs go?
What is it that I believe in?
Maybe my new boss can tell me.
Mr. President, this is him. Alfred F. Jones.
[step forward as you are introduced. smile a pained smile]
Jones! Heard so much about you.
[shake his hand. it is greasy]
Likewise.
[put your hand back into your pocket to hide that it is shaking]
Just call me Donald.
[just call him donald]
-Signed, Alfred F. Jones, 11/08/2016