Jade Sharma - Problems

“No, you won’t. You’ll go away. Everyone always goes away.”

“We’ll be buddies forever, I promise.”

“What if something really bad happens? What if I get sick?”

“I’ll fly back. I promise. If anything bad happens, I will come back for you.”

“What if you don’t? What if you just go away?”

“I won’t. Please stop crying. Please. This doesn’t change anything. You will always have me, okay?”

What mattered and what didn’t? Did it matter that my apartment was messy? Did it matter that I messed up school when I never really wanted to be a teacher?

Amy said on the phone, “You just need one thing to fall into place in life, and then everything can be gangbusters, you know? You could go to an interview for a job and end up getting it and then meet some dude at work and boom: you are normal. You see how you could easily get stuck and turn into one of those boring people just waiting around to die.”

When the boring has become thrilling, you know you have wandered far off the path.

Sometimes you think, Was I trying to make myself as fucked-up as possible so no man would ever want me? Sure, be a junkie and hide away so men can’t even find you. Hook up with dudes for money, make more secrets, so if you do find a man, you can think, If I ever tell him those things, he won’t love me anymore . You wonder, When did I confuse hedonism with lousy old self-destruction?

It is an art to make yourself so unlovable.

“There’s something wrong with me,” you tell Jimmy.

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s this feeling I have.”

“You are so fucking hot. The first time I saw you all I thought was, That girl is fucking hot .”

Sometimes men know exactly what to say.

It’s easy to see how people can get lost forever, how they disappear down a hole of their own making. You are spitting distance from a lot of dead-ends: jail, OD’ing, rehab, staring at a television for the rest of your life. Waking up to start all over again, every single day: hook up, money, drugs. Every day a lifetime. Every lifetime filthy and depressing.

“We can still get discovered, you know?” Elizabeth says. “We’re still young.”

“Are we?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

Amy says, “I don’t think you’ll OD. I do worry about that, but what I really worry about is that you won’t do anything for the next twenty years.”

You stop, just to see what it feels like. Also because you ran out of money. But you don’t want money. You want to try life on again. You want to see how things feel and how things work without being high. You are like a little kid the night before school starts. You lie awake in the dark sneezing and coughing, waiting for morning, wondering what life has in store for you.

This over-the-top sensationalized garbage. You are a genius, but there aren’t any synonyms for I . Let’s try this: me, me, me. Roll your eyes. Congratulations, you’re a disaster. Happy birthday. No one cares. Cut your arms and flash your pussy. As soon as you actually have something to be sad about, no one will be there, because you’ll be an old woman, and nobody thinks it’s cute when old women are disasters. You will avoid eyes. You will say you’re sorry without looking up. Sorry for being late. Sorry for not calling the exterminator. Sorry for all of it. Sit at the bar at Starbucks. When did they start playing Iron and Wine? You came in here to drink a sugary caffeinated drink and lose yourself in a fluffy magazine, not to have an honest moment of reflection in a generic corporate coffee chain. Cut your nails. Buy a belt. Brush your hair. Sit up straight. Change your e-mail address. Stop trying to be precious with references to obscure song lyrics. Change your voicemail message to the preset. Show the world you can be normal for five seconds. Look at a tree and try not to imagine you’re in a movie with a woman looking at a tree. Try not to think as you chain-smoke, pacing around on the phone, that you might look like a movie star. Tell a joke. Fake a smile. Everybody likes it when you tell a joke and fake a smile because they can see you’re at least trying. And that’s the main thing: to be trying.

* * *

I go out with some dudes from OkCupid. One guy comes over and does blow with me, and when he fucks me, he also licks his fingertips and rubs his nipples. It is the most unattractive thing I’ve ever seen a man do. Another guy I clicked with, and I am sure we’ll hook up, but he disappears on me; when I confront him later, he tells me that I weird him out. “You asked me to go the dog park, like, on the first date. That’s something couples do. Like, you just came on way too strong.” Another guy, an older man who seems incredible and reminds me of Ogden so much that when we hold hands, I feel like he’s the man I’m maybe supposed to be with. He dumps me, too. Says it’s because of our age difference, but I don’t believe him.

One is a young rich kid who is lonely and awkward and at first seems so sweet and kind, but he has this thing where he drinks to last longer in bed, and every time he gets drunk, he repeats himself one million times, like a fucking recording. One night I borrow two hundred bucks from him just to see if I can.

Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m not ready.

* * *

I e-mail Ogden and give him updates. Sometimes we talk on the phone, but it always feels like I’m forcing him to talk to me, so I stop. It’s unclear how things are going for him in Oregon. I don’t know or want to know if he has a new woman. Weirdly, now that we aren’t fucking, he is much better at sharing, like, telling me about his house, his job, wanting to start a band. Maybe it is easier for him to share stuff with me because I no longer matter. All I ever wanted was for Ogden to care about me more than was good for him. “Hi, Maya, how can I interest you in your own life today?”

Ogden says I should rent my living room for money. My apartment is perfect for sharing. The living room and the bedroom are on opposite sides of the apartment. The bathroom and kitchen are in the middle. It’s like two studios connected.

I can’t believe the shit I find while looking at other ads on craigslist for rooms to rent: no smoking, extremely clean, no visitors. Some specify the renter must work a regular nine-to-five job. Who pays a grand a month to not even be allowed to have a friend over?

In my own ad I write, “I don’t care what you do so long as I’m not interrogated by the police at some point over a crime you’ve committed; you have to smoke or be smoker-friendly; I don’t care what you do or who you have over, but drama isn’t allowed, and I don’t want to be bothered.”

Ryan is the type of person who finds it extremely funny if when you answer the door at three o’clock, and he asks if you’ve just woken up, you say, “Yes.” He moves in on a Saturday. I allot the extra money for a new phone. I will not spend the money on dope.

Taking Douglass to the corner to get a cab is a lot more emotional than I thought it would be. I feel bad for him. I try to remember that I’m doing this for him too. Having him run to get dope every other minute probably didn’t help him get straight either. Tears fill my eyes as the cab pulls away. It starts to rain. I stand there like it’s a movie. I know there will be moments when I will wish I had let things stay the way they were, but things are going to be different.

Life isn’t short. Life is long. That’s why you have to do something.

I’m living with a person who has his shit together, and I go back to school. I never make the decision to clean up but change happens in these small ways. Maybe I will still call Douglass or the dealer to get dope, and all the rent money will go up my nose, but I don’t think so; somehow I am weirdly ready. I want to do my homework and stay clean. There are times I am up all night in my apartment, writing furiously, and still I am okay. I’m alone, and I’m okay.