October 22, 2009
Tonight, I am surprisingly calm.
It has been what - five minutes? – since I put my life on the line, emotionally speaking – and yet here I sit at my desk, perfectly composed, scribbling away in a case report.
I suppose it could have been worse. Much worse, really. His reaction wasn't nearly as bad as the scenarios I'd dreamed up. No anger, no sadness, no laughter. Just nonchalance.
"I don't think that would be a good idea, Lisbon." His eyes close again, and his body settles more comfortably into the cushions beneath it. No apology. No explanation. Just nonchalance.
Well, if that is to be his reaction, it can be mine as well. It's not like I wasn't prepared for rejection – I knew my chances of success were slim. Still, it stings a bit. I'm glad I asked, anyway, after all these months of indecision. At least I know where I stand.
As I rifle through files in my desk drawer, I find that I am quite impressed with my own reaction to this whole thing. Teresa Lisbon, keepin' it together as usual. That's me…
It is with immense disappointment that I feel my eyes begin to tear a few minutes later. I sigh in resignation as I dab at them with my sleeve, careful not to leave telltale smudges. Okay, so maybe I'm a little bit sad. I did let my hopes get up… a real relationship with Jane, I had dared to imagine that it might be possible….
I bite my lips in an effort to prevent the sadness from swelling up inside me, but it must be doing so anyway, because it's getting more and more difficult to breathe. I close my eyes for a moment, feeling the constriction in my lungs tighten with each laborious inhale and exhale.
I remember a shrink once telling me that the chest area is where you carry grief about relationships. It makes sense, then, this seizing in my chest. The thought doesn't reassure me.
I wonder whether it might be best for me to leave work early, to go home and curl up on the couch with a blanket. I reject the idea almost as soon as it surfaces, though – I'm tougher than that. I can deal with this. I am calm, cool, and collected, and I am taking this rejection in stride.
I feel proud of myself.
I am speaking to Van Pelt ten minutes later when I realize with utter surprise and abject horror that I am about to burst into tears. I hastily excuse myself and rush to the bathroom. My face crumples a moment before I reach its safety, and the door has barely clicked shut behind me when I collapse against it, heaving with sobs.
I desperately try to check my tears, but I hear a whisper from somewhere inside that I should leave them be, to give release to the storm that has been roused within my breast by tonight's events.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and it only succeeds in augmenting my misery. My features are twisted in agony, flushed from the intensity of emotion that they convey, soaked in the tears that are pouring down my face.
I had thought, for just a little while, that I might be able to be happy – really, truly happy.
Is that so much to ask for? For someone else to make me happy?
Is it so much to ask?
IS IT SO MUCH TO ASK?
and I am screaming, screaming in silence, railing against the reality that I despise so much, as the anguish erupts from every pore of my body and courses down my skin.
When my tears cease a few minutes later, I am curled up pathetically on the counter by the sink, leaning weakly against the mirror, completely spent.
I wash my face thoroughly, dry it carefully, and return to my desk.
As ever, duty calls, and the world does not stop for me.
Tonight, I ache.