Invasion of the Body Snatchers

I once heard it said that a crazy person is someone who keeps doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results each time. Like Charlie Brown with the football, we see Lucy sitting there, we remember the taste of the grass when she pulls it out from under our feet, and yet we still charge forward with our legs outstretched.

There's something to be said for indulging in 'crazy.' Crazy may be as crazy does, but crazy is also the moment that you decide to be--you catch your reflection in a car window and think oh boy, this is what an insane person looks like. From that point forward, once that thought has nestled into your brain and taken up an extensive knitting project, it is truly difficult to wrench it out. The past few weeks, I experienced what it is like to be a complete slave to my emotions: if in the past I was somewhat of an indentured servant, or even a nice wisecracking butler to them, recent history has made me none other than a slave. When the voice in my head said 'cry,' water fell. When it said 'act completely unreasonable!' I was thrashing and screaming. And most of all, when it said 'push him until he runs away!' I did just that. The voice inside my head, that little friend that Michael Singer calls your Inner Roommate, suddenly adopted a shrill Yonkers accent and a lisp. In other words, the most annoying voice on the planet. And when I couldn't stand listening to it for another minute, I gave my boyfriend the privilege of listening to it instead...and best of all, I acted surprised when it yielded the same results that it always does. I am Charlie Brown. I have missed the football yet again.

I truly believe that one of the most frightening states of a relationship is the Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Not only are you having an argument, but the person you are speaking to in no way resembles the person you spend your time with--and not in an obvious way, like "this person is no longer wearing a Hawaiian shirt!" but in deeper, subtler, terrifying ways. There is the stomach-pummeling feeling that no matter what you say or do, this person will not understand you. It's like trying to eavesdrop on the Vietnamese nail technicians when you know they are gossiping about your ratty callouses. Suddenly, the light in your person's eyes has been snuffed out--and the worst part is, you don't even feel like the person who did it. Theirs isn't the only body that has been snatched; there is someone in your head, and it's not you. You want the best for your self, but the only thing this person wants is to crush tiny villages like Godzilla on methamphetamines.

And the worst part is, when you've got a case of the body snatchers, the only thing you can do is wait.

So, for three whole days, I waited. And let me tell you, I've given this a lot of thought--and of all the jobs to undertake while going through a massive fight with your boyfriend, some are worse than others. Sticking your head inside the oven to check for gas leaks, for example, might not be the best pastime. Accompanying your friend while he picks out perfume for his perfect girlfriend isn't exactly a hoot. However--and I really mean this--there are few things less appealing than standing outside a popular restaurant and smiling at people for four hours straight; and for those three days, with eyeballs so swollen from crying that I resembled one of those Asian dogs whose features get lost in their own neck fat, I had the distinct displeasure of doing just that. It isn't always bad for business--some German tourists saw my toothy grimace and pained stance and thought, "oh goody! just like home!" Yet the majority of the time, I had the feeling that most people I was able to make eye contact with were able to recognize the tortured milkiness of my gaze, and head for the Indian restaurant next door. If only they were sorry enough that they bought a couple shrimp and calamari appetizers, ah... well, I'd probably make better tips. As it is, I think most people were at a loss for what to do. And they're not the only ones.

The thing about core-shaking arguments, and the ever-lovely silent treatment, is that once you're out of it you miraculously forget how awful it was; or at least, your brain puts a band-aid over the more gooey scabs. When I was waiting to go into dance class, crying my little eyes out, one of my fellow dancers told me about her real crisis--a husband who had lied and left her, and what felt to her like a shattered life. It's been a year, she told me, and it still hurts... but it gets better. And as far as that whole story goes, I'm familiar with the outcome. I've been there. I've never been married, but I've been there. So does the fact that I continue to run into this relationship with arms outstretched--engaging in the same careless behavior, but expecting the other person to have matured for the both of us--make me crazy?

The answer is no. The fact that I keep expecting to hit the football may make me stupid, as anyone who has seen me play team sports would agree, but it doesn't mean I'm crazy. Crazy would be not walking up to Lucy, extending a hand, and at least trying to work things out. Crazy would be the lack of change, not choosing a different path...not making it harder for the body-snatchers to take up real estate.

I'm still having absurd dreams, including a particularly vivid one involving papier mache sharks, but I no longer feel as though someone else is at the helm of my life. I'm at peace now, and so is he. We bid farewell to the demon-seeds that temporarily occupied our psyches, and laughed when we realized it takes approximately ten seconds of hugging for each day that was spent in argument to undo the damage completely. It wasn't the first, nor will it be the last time that a storm hits; however, next time the forecast calls for rough waters, all we can ever do is suck it up and get a bigger boat. We would be crazy not to.