Only Happy When It Rains
©Rachel C
Maybe I am just a bitch because I can. Have you ever thought of it that way? As if I have control over the way I treat you, as if I know I am doing it. Better yet, maybe I don’t. Maybe I know I can, maybe I know I can show you bitch, but I can’t turn it off. It never shuts off, and I am a bitch just because I can.
The room is burning, it’s hot and sticky and so much like summer. For a while I felt like God was trying to tell me something, trying to tell me He needed me in Oklahoma. It’s been pouring for weeks, everyday it rains. I joke, “who needs Seattle”, but I still do. Seattle, Chicago, somewhere far away and big, somewhere with a dark center and a bright exterior, somewhere I can feel small—and for the sake of it, feel purposeful. I still need to breathe city air, feel the rush as the train speeds through an underground maze, take trips to the airport just to have something to do, somewhere to be, someone to talk with as we watch the city disappear. I still need to leave, even if God refuses to let me go; eventually I have to win my own battle—it’s unfair to keep me in hell when I am trying so hard to prove myself worthy of heaven. I will refuse, push back, I will no longer battle with this karma or this destiny. I will keep moving forward.
But it’s raining still, the heat of the morning stunted by the depth of the clouds. Later today it will be too humid to bear, I’ll squirm when I walk to the car, standing outside will make me sweat. But for now it’s raining, and I am smiling, imagining I’m somewhere else. Somewhere colder, maybe even soggier. It seems to me that it never rains for long enough—it always passes over, taking the cool with it, the cover from the sun with the clouds dark and low. I smile when it’s raining, smile as I sing along to the radio, fighting the urge to shut off the music and listen to the putter against the windshield. I smile and I bet that I am not a bitch in those moments. I am not a bitch in most moments. And yet, someone always seems to think so, even in the rain. Maybe I am reverting to my internal struggle with this place. And, though I like the people, maybe I am taking it out on them—who I live with, who I work with. But, in the rain I am not a bitch, I am not thinking about being a bitch, I am just thinking about the rain, about the city, about you and why you’re not closer, more real. But when I am standing in the rush, being told I’ve done something wrong, not knowing better, I’m a bitch. I’m a bitch because I can, because you want me to be, because it justifies something for the both of us—why you should hate me, why I should be angry...why I should hate myself.
But I don’t hate myself in the rain. I only dream in the rain. Dream of who I am beneath the water, who I am beneath this skin. Dream of the days when I can travel, and roam, and catch the train and go anywhere but here. Dream of the days when I don’t have to be a bitch to justify myself, be a bitch to justify why I hate you. Because, I don’t hate you. I could never hate you, but I can’t ever seem to make you see that I am worth the time you spend bitching at me. Bitching because you can, bitching because you don’t want a reason to get along with me. I’m a bitch; what does that make you?
June 11, 2007
Author's Note: thinking about things, I suppose. Maybe I'm not feeling so blue.
Don't You Think We Oughta Know by Now?
Maybe I am just a bitch because I can. Have you ever thought of it that way? As if I have control over the way I treat you, as if I know I am doing it. Better yet, maybe I don’t. Maybe I know I can, maybe I know I can show you bitch, but I can’t turn it off. It never shuts off, and I am a bitch just because I can.
The room is burning, it’s hot and sticky and so much like summer. For a while I felt like God was trying to tell me something, trying to tell me He needed me in Oklahoma. It’s been pouring for weeks, everyday it rains. I joke, “who needs Seattle”, but I still do. Seattle, Chicago, somewhere far away and big, somewhere with a dark center and a bright exterior, somewhere I can feel small—and for the sake of it, feel purposeful. I still need to breathe city air, feel the rush as the train speeds through an underground maze, take trips to the airport just to have something to do, somewhere to be, someone to talk with as we watch the city disappear. I still need to leave, even if God refuses to let me go; eventually I have to win my own battle—it’s unfair to keep me in hell when I am trying so hard to prove myself worthy of heaven. I will refuse, push back, I will no longer battle with this karma or this destiny. I will keep moving forward.
But it’s raining still, the heat of the morning stunted by the depth of the clouds. Later today it will be too humid to bear, I’ll squirm when I walk to the car, standing outside will make me sweat. But for now it’s raining, and I am smiling, imagining I’m somewhere else. Somewhere colder, maybe even soggier. It seems to me that it never rains for long enough—it always passes over, taking the cool with it, the cover from the sun with the clouds dark and low. I smile when it’s raining, smile as I sing along to the radio, fighting the urge to shut off the music and listen to the putter against the windshield. I smile and I bet that I am not a bitch in those moments. I am not a bitch in most moments. And yet, someone always seems to think so, even in the rain. Maybe I am reverting to my internal struggle with this place. And, though I like the people, maybe I am taking it out on them—who I live with, who I work with. But, in the rain I am not a bitch, I am not thinking about being a bitch, I am just thinking about the rain, about the city, about you and why you’re not closer, more real. But when I am standing in the rush, being told I’ve done something wrong, not knowing better, I’m a bitch. I’m a bitch because I can, because you want me to be, because it justifies something for the both of us—why you should hate me, why I should be angry...why I should hate myself.
But I don’t hate myself in the rain. I only dream in the rain. Dream of who I am beneath the water, who I am beneath this skin. Dream of the days when I can travel, and roam, and catch the train and go anywhere but here. Dream of the days when I don’t have to be a bitch to justify myself, be a bitch to justify why I hate you. Because, I don’t hate you. I could never hate you, but I can’t ever seem to make you see that I am worth the time you spend bitching at me. Bitching because you can, bitching because you don’t want a reason to get along with me. I’m a bitch; what does that make you?
June 11, 2007
Author's Note: thinking about things, I suppose. Maybe I'm not feeling so blue.
Don't You Think We Oughta Know by Now?
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