“We’re going to meet again at the end of this semester, after exams. If you haven’t met all your responsibilities for the remainder of this term…” he pushes to his feet, looking down at me, “I’ll have no choice but to recommend a formal review of your position, including probation and a committee evaluation.”
What thefuck…
He doesn’t give me a chance to respond as he gives me a curt nod and gestures towards my computer. “I’ll let you get back to it. Send your exam to the printer today.”
Then he’s gone.
And I’m left staring at the empty doorway.
I don’t know how long I sit here as the conversation replays in my head.
And I’m not sure how to feel.
I dig deep to try to find some resemblance of panic, and to feel something close to urgency. I try to find the will to care about what he’s saying, and that the years I put into this, and my identity I built around it, are slipping through my fingers.
But I don’t even try to hang on to it.
Because the only thing that rises inside me… is anger.
Anger that he thinks he understands what he’s seeing, but doesn’t.
Anger that he cares, and that he doesn’t.
Anger that he tried to help, and that I pushed him away.
Anger that he didn’t try harder… and anger that I didn’t let him.
That Iknowsomething is locked away deep inside me, buried so deep I can’t reach it… and no one seems to be able to find the key.
Anger that I finally feel like myself again… and no one seems to like that version of me.
The version that’s reckless, and chases everything that makes me feel good, bad, and everything in between.
Because Ifeel.
And anger that it has to come at this cost.
My phone vibrates on the desk in front of me, and I look down to see the screen light up with a text.
Mom
Hi honey. Just wanted to say I’m looking forward to seeing you this weekend xo
And just like that, the anger collapses, giving way to guilt. It rips through everything as I stare at her words, until the screen fades to black.
I’ve been letting people down for as long as I can remember. And the ones who have been through it all continue to show up, even when I treat them like shit.
I close my eyes as an intense, familiar need settles deep in the pit of my stomach. That craving that lives just above everything else and always promises relief. Just enough to quiet the roar and soften the edges, and bring warmth where everything feels raw, open, and exposed.
I try to fight it, to tell myself I don’t need it.
Don’t reach for the drawer, and don’t pull out the rum. Don’t do it… I don’t need it…
But I do.
I move on autopilot as I reach down and open the drawer, my movements hurried and driven by desperation—until I find the bottle nearly empty.
Fuck.
