255 Days of Shedding
The stereotype is true: college students party. The other stereotype is also true: that kid with the wire glasses and old sweater does not party. He vacuums and reads badly-written novels. Occasionally, he’ll call someone. Often, he wallows. He believes something must be wrong with him because no matter how good the day was, when night sets in and the dorm is empty, he can feel his insides disfigure. There is some deformity, some intangible wrongness, that he cannot seem to rid himself of. Everyone else is with everyone else. He doesn’t know if he will ever belong with them. Yes, earlier he went with friends into midtown for gelato, but that doesn’t count because now the friends he went for gelato with are hanging out with their friends. Now shots pour and strangers turn to lovers and the boy with wire glasses curls up in bed, face lit up by the glow of his laptop. He is different from the boy earlier today. Lonelier than the boy from earlier today. Which one is the real him?
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How do you expose yourself? How do you show someone your insides without the biohazard? I’m afraid of soiling my audience.
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The first few times you talk to a person, they know nothing about you, just what they think you look like. Every word pronounced, every vocal lilt, they use for information. For those first interactions you have complete control. People must love it, must ride the carousel over and over, faces blurring, never there long enough to stick.
He’s watching me, waiting. He’s expecting some sort of reaction, something he can read off me. I try to relax my face. I glance towards him, wondering what he’s trying to discern. We read each other, back and forth. Two pairs of eyes, volleying.
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The teacher in this class loves to screen films with us. Something about our generation not being able to handle written text due to Instagram. I don’t think she knows I’m a writing major. Despite the (minorly) insulting introduction, I watched the film intently. It was about a parrot. Their species are dying out because of humans. The parrot chirps the very last line towards the audience. Towards me. “I love you. Be good.” I realized then how long it had been since someone looked me in the eyes, face to face, and told me, “I love you.”
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Two mouths kissing in the dark. I never caught his name, did I?
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I can’t stop changing my mind. I must rely too much on other people’s opinions. I’m alone, which means I’m walking in a circle. Over and over, wearing down the carpet.
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I forgot how well you know me. I’ll never forget again.
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I love how it feels to recount old memories. I love talking with people on the phone. The rushed in anecdotes after the fifth goodbye, since neither person really wants to hang up. I love hugging. I love being close enough to a person to hug them. The special permission to rest with your hearts together. To feel their skin. And trust. Trust that their smile is genuine. Trust that they will see you break, fold yourself in half, and after they will drive you to the doctor so your bones can be reset. I love how it feels to say “I miss you.” The sad pulling in my chest at the words. To have someone that makes you a better person.
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You’ll never know when it will be the last time you see them again.
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My friends call me a parent. I’ve never wanted children, and don’t consider myself particularly paternal, but I think I understand what they mean. I love them too hard.
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I don’t care if people overhear my conversations. It’s a testament to the fact that I have something to say—and people to say it to.
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Something about me makes it hard to get other people’s attention. Something about me is sad. I want to feel important. I want to be spotted from across campus. I want people to remember my birthday and answer my calls. Maybe I’m not real enough.
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If I keep moving to all these different cities, do you think eventually I’ll leave my body behind?
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Nothing can replace being known.
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My Godsister said that there are two types of people in this world: answers and questions. We were sitting across from each other, alone. She said I was a question. Then she mentioned my boyfriend. “Now, he? He’s an answer.”
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What’s the difference between opening up and scaring someone?
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I’m sorry I only have questions.
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I’m not lying, I refuse to disclose personal information. I refuse to let people worry about me. I will not be a problem. Besides, what if people think of me differently? What if lying is what keeps them seeing who I really am? I am a whole person, not just ugly parts. If I tell them, they will never know anything else about me.
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My parents are so proud of me. I try not to cry, I try instead to understand. I want to be the size of a stone, tucked safely in my father’s hand, his fingers hiding an impossibly tiny me. I want my mom to kiss me on the forehead. Where are my parents? Right now, this very second, where are they? What are they doing? What do they think I’m doing?
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Everything sours, eventually. No matter what happens, what you do, what you say, how old you get, or where you live, you will never stop feeling this. You will never escape yourself.
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It’s bright and we’re sitting on a picnic blanket, but you aren’t there. I’m with people you’ve never met before. Remember when we stretched out that lazy June day at Dolores Park? Sitting close enough to touch, arguing about nothing so that we could keep talking to each other. I loved you so much then. I loved you the way only a friend could. I’m still there most days, with you last summer. It distracts me from the fact that you haven’t called in a month. Remember back then? You promised that when we went off to college, every Friday, a phone call. Every. Friday. I wish it were still June.
Theo Halladay is a writer, dweller, and dabbler. He’s a San Francisco native who’s now settled in Brooklyn, New York, where he is currently working towards his BFA in Writing at Pratt Institute. When he’s not holed up in a bookstore or typing out loosely-knit autofiction, you can find Theo patching up old clothes or petting all the dogs ever.
Theo is featured in Taylor Maroney’s painting “Theo,” which is the cover for Issue 91.
