Kether (PART 5)
It was good that I arrived on campus during freshman orientation before classes started. I had originally meant to attend orientation, despite technically being a sophomore, because I figured that the orientation would have useful information for transfer students as well.
That never happened.
After Erastes closed the door behind him, I continued crying into my pillow until I had no more energy for it. I cried myself to sleep that night without ever leaving my room. Later I woke up to use the bathroom - I think the clock in the lounge might have said one in the morning, but I wasn't paying attention - tears running down my face and into my throat; when I was done, I stumbled, still crying, back to my room, and continued to sob into my pillow until exhaustion overtook me again.
Morning came. With morning came yet more tears.
Oh, it wasn't constant, at least, not entirely. At various points, I was able to quiet myself down enough to take care of a few mundane details of everyday life. At one point I unpacked my suitcase - removing the gifts Erastes had given me and finding places on the dresser and on the hutch over the desk to store them was another exercise in torment, but I got through it, also through the unpacking and restacking of the books, which included all the books he had given me, and there were a lot of them - and I nearly panicked over having forgotten to buy basic toiletries such as toothpaste and soap, because I had no money on me; until I saw that in a corner of the suitcase, Erastes had packed my scented shampoo and conditioner, also a bottle of chlorhexidine that came with a notecard on which he had scribbled POUR ON BACK AFTER SHOWERING. USE FOR ONE WEEK ONLY. USE ONLY SOAP AND WATER TO WASH THEREAFTER. DISCONTINUE ANTISEPTIC WASH IF IRRITATING TO SKIN. (SEEK MEDICAL ATTENTION IF YOU DEVELOP A FEVER OR IF YOUR URINE TURNS BROWN) in permanent marker, along with several tubes of antibiotic ointment for my upper back and some other personal care necessities from our bathroom, and a new toothbrush and toothpaste, wrapping all the items neatly in zip-sealed plastic bags. Of course, this, too, was an occasion for tears, but I got everything packed and stored, and after a while, I was settled in.
Later that morning I noticed that I was thirsty, and when I emerged from my room to get water from the sink in the kitchenette, I found that I was also hungry, and I realized that I hadn't eaten in two days, so I looked at my campus map and found the dining hall nearest me and the time lunch would be served in it. I even managed to get there on time and to eat my food without bawling in public and causing a scene.
At some point, I must have picked up an orientation packet and checked in. I don't remember doing it. Nor do I remember enrolling in classes, or talking to the financial aid office about getting a student loan large enough to pay for the books and other incidentals my grants did not cover, or introducing myself to the resident advisor on my hall - which was a hall of upperclassmen and had no other transfer students, so I was the only one living on my floor for the first few days until the official beginning of the academic year - but I'm sure I did all of those things at some point.
One thing I do remember clearly is showering unassisted for the first time in the suite's bathroom. For the past couple of weeks, I hadn't had to worry about the practicalities involved - Erastes had washed my back for me with a sponge, while I sat soaking in a bath in a sort of tea made with comfrey, calendula, chamomile, and lavender that he'd boiled in a stock pot with salt to add to the bathwater, and then after bathing me, he'd applied the antibiotic ointment to the wounds he'd made. I didn't have that luxury anymore. For the most part, they had stopped bleeding and oozing, having reached the scabby, itchy stage of healing, but whenever they got exposed to water for a long enough period, they opened up again in a few places, and I really didn't want the lacerations to get infected, because that would mean I'd have to get professional medical help, which would mean having to explain how they got there in the first place. Bandaging was difficult, which was why Erastes had bought me armfuls of disposable cotton undershirts to protect my healing flesh (not to mention my clothing, in case I bled) but I still had to apply the ointment myself, which proved problematic. Eventually, I got used to doing it, just as I got used to the stinging sensation the shower inflicted on me until all of them were closed completely and scar tissue began to form. But that first shower hurt. The only thing good about it was the heat. I had a peculiar chill that had settled in my bones, completely unrelated to my actual body temperature.
For the most part, though, I wasn't paying close attention to these little details of settling in, so I don't remember much else about them.
I couldn't stop crying that first week. After a while it became terrifying, at least, it terrified me, because aside from the things Erastes did to me, almost nothing before this had reduced me to tears easily. But there I was, weeping randomly and completely uncontrollably, in my room, or walking down the sidewalk on my way to meet with my faculty advisor, or washing myself in the shower. Once it started, it took hold of me until I was nearly senseless with misery. The more I tried to get myself under control, the worse things got.
After several days of this, I had swallowed so much snot from crying that I made myself sick, and after I vomited, I looked down into the toilet bowl and saw blood. For a few frightening seconds, I thought I was dying of internal bleeding; then my common sense returned, and I realized I'd merely cried for so long that I'd made my throat and esophagus raw, hence the blood.
After that my weepy tendencies quieted down somewhat - something about looking at my bloody vomit and sputum shocked me into stillness - and from then on, instead of spending my days drowning myself in my own tears, I spent them in numbness.
I went to classes - I'd changed my major from philosophy to English, because from what I had seen in my last academic institution, new English instructors were hired far more frequently than new philosophy instructors, and I liked the idea of being hired in my field after graduation, rather than going back to telesales - and I did the course assignments. I couldn't really call it work. It was child's play compared to the four years of private tutoring I'd had before reentering college full-time.
When not in classes, I... existed. I ate meals. I read books in the campus library. I auditioned for a concert choir and was given a place in the alto section. It was a way to stay busy.
From time to time, I would be doing homework in my dorm room; and I would stare at the white paint on the cinder blocks of my bare walls, and rage would overtake me. Like Heloise before me, I did not like being shut in a glorified convent cell, unable to be with my lover and soulmate, unable to do anything but meditate and study. Unlike Heloise, I was not a nun, so I could have found a new partner for my bed had I been interested, but I was not interested. I only wanted one person, and he was forbidden to me.
I wondered if he was spending his days and nights longing for me the way I longed for him. When things were quiet at the reference desk, did he, too, stop what he was doing, whatever it was, and stare off into the distance, reaching for our conjoined souls automatically with his thoughts, then pulling back because reestablishing contact with me was inappropriate? Was he tempted to walk into my dreams? Did his memories pluck at him, the way they did at me, begging to be touched? Of course, there was no way of knowing for certain. And that was the hell of it: The one person in all the world, who I desperately needed for advice on how best to handle this agony of separation, to hold me when I found myself crying, to explain to me what I was going through ("Is it harder to get over the end of a romantic relationship if you were sexually submissive to your ex-lover? What if you were the dominant partner in the relationship? Does the power exchange make a difference? Is it harder on submissives than it is on dominants, or not? What if you've also conducted a ritual that bound your souls together forever to the point where your lives in the future, whatever form they may take, will be latticed together like the double helix of a DNA strand, so closely and tightly that no matter how far apart you are, you can never be distant, but you are forbidden to reach out for the link in this lifetime? Is it normal for that to feel like torture? And how can I go on without you?" No answer), who could let me know when the pain might finally be easier to bear, or failing that, who might simply ease my torment by being there and holding me through my ordeal, was gone. I was utterly alone.
And I was ill.
It started with a chronic, nagging headache, exhaustion, a chill, and a bit of queasiness; I figured I had caught the flu.
However, instead of clearing up after a week or two, it got worse. I started to get migraines every day. Sometimes my headaches made me see strange things: flashing lights, or things moving in the corner of my vision that I could never quite focus on. Time began to move strangely for me. When I was in the throes of an agonizing headache, time moved all too slowly; but then afterwards, sometimes, I would pass out from the pain, and that made time seem to skip disconcertingly. Time itself simply felt weird. Alien. I can't describe it.
Meanwhile, my back, which eventually lost its itchy scabs for a mass of scar tissue, would periodically clench up so tightly that it hurt to move (I forced myself to stretch, anyway, when that happened, fearing that if I didn't make myself move, I might never move properly again).
I got sick when I thought about food, even though I always felt hungry. I began to live on a diet of peanut butter sandwiches, rice, and oatmeal, with the occasional glass of milk or fruit juice, because that was all I could force myself to eat.
I was always tired. I wanted to spend all my free time in bed, but once in bed, I could not sleep. The headaches and the pain in my tense muscles kept me awake. The best I could manage was to practice my Zen meditation. I knew how to meditate through pain. I'd had years of practice, after all.
Then there was the cold. I was always cold; it seemed I would never know warmth again, even on mild, sunny autumn days. The cold was in the marrow of my bones. I could not rid myself of it. I shivered at night, and at dawn, my shuddering flesh would wake me up if I'd somehow managed to fall asleep. It was worst at dawn. Wrapping myself up in my comforter did nothing to thaw me.
When the chest pains started, I finally forced myself to go to the campus health clinic, after having avoided it for fear of what would happen when I had to remove or lift my shirt for a stethoscope; the less said about what happened when that inevitability was reached, the better. Suffice it to say that the conversation was embarrassing, unpleasant, and involved a few white lies on my part, because I didn't think the truth would be very well received.
The doctor tried various prescriptions to ease the headaches, including antidepressants on the grounds that I was certainly exhibiting chronic misery, and my other symptoms seemed consistent with the sort of psychosomatic bizarreness that sometimes accompanies clinical depression, but the best he was able to do was turn the pain in my head down to a dull roar.
Meanwhile, the pain in my chest never got eased at all. At least I seemed to be in no danger of dying, given my normal heartbeat, and the lack of any indication that there was something actually wrong with my heart or lungs, although nothing the doctor did seemed to be of very much help, either. So much for the depression theory; or maybe antidepressants simply couldn't help the form of melancholy that had settled into me, seeping into the very fibers of my body.
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