Bathroom Blues

It was Tuesday night. Nothing pressing in the next morning (except for Pacific Studies assessment -- which is really not very pressing at all). 

The day was long, and cold. It was bitterly cold in Auckland, unusually cold. It had snowed yesterday in the city, they said. And it doesn't snow in Auckland. Ever. I witnessed a bit of hail, too, whilst fixing my bed with the curtains drawn. Small bits of ice hit my window, and it got me so excited that I squealed. Inside the fortress of our quaint home and through the magical barrier that is my window, I'd thought it was cool, seeing as it was the first time I'd ever seen ice falling from the sky. The moment I got out of the house however, I wanted to race back in. The cold practically bitchslapped my face. 

I sighed. Winter was unforgiving. And school today was tedious, repetitive and boring.

A bath would be perfect, I thought. A bath would be nice. A long, warm dip in the water would relax my nerves, give me some time to think. Brilliant.

I turned the two faucets on, both hot and cold water flowing out at the same rate. After a number of the same escapades, I'd learned that the water would still be warm enough for me to feel pain even if cold water was flowing too. So I waited -- rather impatiently -- before going in.

(I'll skip the part where I -- as human behavior requires -- strip down and blah blah blah, you get it. As far as you're concerned, I'm still clothed just to save the purity of this account.)

I tell you, there is nothing as soothing and as calming as being surrounded by warm water while lying down, eyes closed and muscles relaxed. It's as if I could spread out all of me and just forget I ever had a weight in this world, forget that gravity even existed. The steam changed the room, morphed it into something more, something out of this world, and I forgot who I was. I forgot where I was. I forgot why I was -- in the assumption that I knew, and I didn't. I just forgot. And forgetting was a blessing. 

However, my brain still worked and consequently, my thoughts still existed, but they clouded inside my head. There was nothing concrete in there, everything shapeless, formless. But there was an aura. More than thoughts, there were feelings. And I never breed feelings anymore. Feeling was scary. Feeling hurt like hell. Feeling was a curse. The moment I realized I was feeling, I knew.

And just like that, like the snap of a finger, I felt a pang inside me. Of sadness, of loneliness. I shook. I gasped as if I'd ran a mile without stopping and let out air out of nowhere. My insides twisted, my chest tightened, and my eyes burned.

And then the tears came. 

Now let me tell you something: Tears are something I don't let out without sufficient reason, and you know that. Tears are a luxury to me that I can't afford. But they came anyway. They came in gushes. They came, to my disappointment, and my heart ached. 

Maybe I'd wanted to get into the bath tub so I could cry; so I could remember that I was still very very human and that I could still feel. Because frankly, I haven't been feeling very much the past few weeks since I got here. It was safer that way, I thought. I'd withdrawn successfully for that period of time - and I thought I still could. I thought I could still bottle up all the feelings. I thought I had a greater capacity, more space to store feelings that I kept inside every single day that...every single day that I wasn't with you.

Of course. The reason I was crying was because of you. 

My tears spilled into the water in loud drops. So now I was surrounded by water contaminated by my salty tears, but I didn't mind. I let it out. I let all of me out. I let you out. 

And then my thoughts began to take shape and images formed in my head: memories. Memories I have very easily repressed the way I did my feelings. Memories of you, of us. Memories of running under the rain one night after an urgent need to buy food, memories of piggie-back rides at the empty streets, memories of long conversations at the swing sets in Luneta Park, memories of holding each other's symmetrical hands, memories of crying our eyes out when we finally realized that this was goodbye -- although a temporary one, but still a goodbye. One that we dreaded. One that we weren't ready for.

And so I cried like there was no tomorrow. In the room that had morphed into something more, something out of this world. I cried and my tears spilled on my cheeks, dropped into the water. 

I thought of you. I cried for you. I FELT for you. 

I felt so much I was shaking. 

And then of course, I had to stop. As much as I wanted to cry more in self-pity, naked and stripped down of all defenses (literally and metaphorically), I couldn't. I had class tomorrow. And my eyes would be burning red. I hated attracting attention. I didn't want it. Not from my family, not from my friends. 

With a lot of effort and gulping, I stopped myself and stood and resumed my bathing procedures. 

I washed away what was left of my tears with a cold shower. In the mirror, my eyes weren't as bad as they would have been and I sighed with relief. 

I realized then that crying in the bathroom was efficient. My tears would not mark any dry surface and reveal my emo-ness. They would wash away easily. And nobody would know that I'd indeed cried. Nobody would see me. Nobody would hear. I would not get caught. (Suddenly, crying is a crime now.)

As it nears the 20th, I suspect this burden to get worse. Today, I barely talked to anyone. I thought of you, mostly. And last night, I dreamed of you too. Dreamed that you'd forgotten me. 

Oh, the bathroom blues. Should have seen that one coming.