Zerissenheit
It was late Sunday afternoon and, legs knotted in a half-lotus, I curled happily over a book that had recently found a home in its rightful alphabetical order on my hackneyed Ikea bookshelf for months now. Its cover, framed with floral embellishment surrounding a bold and golden title, had attracted me for the mere reason that it was nothing I would ordinarily purchase.
"Grande soy no-water chai!" the barista barked, with the over-rehearsed enthusiasm of a carnival worker. I untangled from my stool and headed to claim my beverage. As I reached for its steaming, hippie splendor, so too did a bebearded twentysomething in pearl-snap plaid. All in a moment's time, I realized that in a gluttonous splurge I'd ordered a venti (though I wouldn't have mentioned it to the barista had he indeed made a mistake) and that I found this man undeniably attractive, as if some magnetic force was pulling our lives gracefully together into a serendipitous collision. (I think he reminded me of Peter, but that's another story altogether.)
Simultaneously, both blushing, we retreated, offering the other person the courtesy of taking the drink. The barista, who had watched the entire mishap with somewhat of a devilish grin, finally spoke up. "I think that's yours," he nodded to my partner in this awkward tea dance. Cheeks still flushed, I turned to resume my perch and fumbled to find something to busy myself with. "It's okay," he said, "I'll wait for the next one." I attempted a verbal protest, but only managed to shake my head, mumbling something uninterpretable, and focused my attention on flipping through the first few pages of my book. I've always hated how many unnecessary paged lie between a book's cover and its contents; it's like the inordinate amount of time it takes for people to open an envelope containing the name of the winner of this season's American Idol. Get to it, already!
I was too busy hating undue suspense to notice the three paper cups that had taken occupancy on the far corner of my counter. (Yes, it's fact: wherever my Moleskine, scarf, and cell phone take residency immediately becomes mine--and only mine--for the entire duration of their stay.) The trio belonged to none other than my recently imagined soulmate, who was busy donning his worn leather jacket. "We have similar taste," I offered with an inadvertent wink. (I hate it when I do that, though I've been told it's endearing.) He smiled back at me, nodding. "It's for my girlfriend, actually," he added, as though he had only just remembered she'd sent him here. "Fiancé, I should say." A series of f-words ran through my own mind: fuck, figures, farewell. "Congratulations!" I said, through my salutation was dripping with insincerity. "Thank you!" he said, now beaming as if someone had whispered in his ear a secret so exciting he could hardly contain himself. As he marched out of the coffee shopping, wearing his nearly-wed badge of pride, I fell out of love with him as instantly as I'd fallen into it.
"Venti soy chai tea latte!" The announcement poured out of his crooked smile. But as I clutched the cardboard sleeve, he looked at me as though he knew he was serving me my all-too-familiar cup of bitter loneliness. I sighed, situated myself against the wall, and let the world inside my novel substitute my own.
A few times I'd thought I heard someone calling my name. "Britt," the voice cooed. "Britt!" it repeated, louder and with the enthusiasm of anticipating an unexpected reunion of a childhood friendship. Reluctantly, and still in disbelief that anyone in this town would know my name, I emerged from my book to find a ponytailed girl about my age vying for the barista's attention. It was too much; I couldn't watch their embrace.
Just then, as if on cue to rescue me from my own mind, my phone rang. It was my mother. "Hey, honey. Are you in bed already?" Brow furrowed, I glanced at my watch. "Mom... It's 7:30." And while in most circumstances that question would seem ludicrous, I had to admit she was only being thoughtful. My relationship with sleep had been tumultuous for just over two years (two years, one month, and four days to be precise), but now, as if making up for lost time, my bed and I shared each other's company like a couple of young lovers, who finally casted aside their argumentss of obvious incompatibility, told their disapproving families to fuck off, and found ravenous excitement in their concupiscence and rebellion.
But my rebellion was hardly poetic. Restorative, perhaps, but I was only boycotting from the inevitable approach of adulthood. But it wasn't bills, grocery shopping, paying taxes, nor the long hours at work that plagued me. It was the mere banality of the conversations I overheard at lunch, the inattentive eyes of parents whose children were finding matchless joy in grinding crayons, the discarded beer bottles on the side of the road, and the abhorrent amount of creations published under the guise of creativity (to an obsequious generation who only thought they were being unique) that spurred my existential angst.
Zerissenheit. "Torn-to-pieces-hood", if you will. The German language may be a bit unapproachable, to say the least, but it is remarkably equipped with the vocabulary expressive enough to remind you that no person is immune to the inherent tragedies of being alive. (I'm almost sorry to be so grave, but this isn't my lament on the road to perdition, I swear.)
People always seem to find it shameful when they realize someone can relate to their own despair, but it only means they haven't been properly introduced to empathy.
Empathy. Only a handful of years ago, I wouldn't have been able to give you a digestible definition. Now, I'll do you one better. You know that churning you get in your stomach when you hear a loved one unlock the front door, returning after a fight so monstrous your throat still hurts from screaming? Or the vortex that appears in your chest when you have to tell your neighbors that you found their dog run over in the alley? How about the welling in your throat when you watch an ordinarily stoic grandfather tear up as he holds his granddaughter in arms for the first time? That--that visceral feeling that you get--is empathy. If you want the scientific explanation, neurons in your prefrontal cortex are firing off as interconnected webs of your own experiences are ignited. The reason you feel it all throughout your body is because of your central nervous system has woven the fabric of your being together so intricately. Empathy is what makes us human, what makes us extraordinary.
It is also what makes us incredibly vulnerable. That's where I was, stuck in a state of perpetual, unrelenting vulnerability. I would have liked to blame someone (and I could have, that rat bastard...) but if I were being honest, empathy was the true culprit. I know it to be the sine qua none of the antidote to my resumption of normal human interaction, but it likewise ruined me. No, really; ruined. What was left of me after that night, what found itself nestled in that chair at the coffee shop, what finds itself now clacking away at this keyboard, and the world in which it inhabits, is now in a permanent state of disrepair. Depressing, perhaps. But that's not what matters, truly, because anyone can be fully alive given any circumstance if only they can experience and express empathy.
So as silly as it may sound, my fleeting (read: sub-30 second) romance with the recently engaged man at my local Starbucks was monumental for me. It's a small but significant contribution to the slowly mounting evidence that I have licked my wounds long enough and now am letting them turn to scars. They will forever be a part of me, a fact that once had disenchanted me from the entire human race, but I am newly finding myself at liberty to embrace the idea of sharing parts (I'd say all, but let's not push it, okay?) of myself with someone else.
Oof. Whatever poor soul ends up finding mine ought be blessed with an extraordinary amount of patience. And chai tea, of course, but that's a given.