Note to Readers: Students in the Happiness Class this week read psychologist James Pennebaker's book, Opening Up, which presents very persuasive evidence that writing one's deepest thoughts and feelings leads to direct improvements in health. Pennebaker studied groups of college students who wrote several times a week about troubling events and the emotions associated with those events. His research suggested that students who did this "expressive writing" had fewer visits to the health center, stronger immune systems, and lower levels of stress.
In her weekly response paper, psychology major Lori Walker chose a marvelously creative way to express her reactions to Pennebaker's book. Her short story follows here. What a great job, Lori, thanks so much for this! And thanks for last week's fabulous response paper too, a first-class essay on Albert Camus' puzzling character, Meursault, from that classic existentialist novel,The Stranger!!
By Lori Walker
I have the worst roommates ever. Seriously, it’s really bad. I don’t remember meeting them, I don’t remember them moving in, and I don’t remember ASKING them to move in. One day they were just there, in my space, using my resources, wasting my time. My house is not big enough for all of them, and besides, I was here first.
Most of the time I can keep them locked in their rooms, but it’s not easy. They are clever, and they whine, and beg and yell and scream to be let out; but isolating them is really my only option. I can’t even walk around my house. There is this one girl who just follows me around, just yelling at me. She balls up her fists, her dirty blond hair in her face and her face twisted into an ugly grimace. Every minute of every day. She gets right up in my face, I feel spit as she yells the words:
“YOU’RE USELESS! I HATE YOU! YOU DON’T BELONG HERE! NOBODY LIKES YOU!”
There is another girl too, she isn’t as aggressive as Blondie, but just the same, she follows me around all day, all night. She’s always crying, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without her sniffles, her tears, her puffy red eyes.
“WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME? WHAT DID I DO TO YOU? WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME? YOU LEFT ME; YOU LEFT ME ALL ALONE WHEN I NEEDED YOU!”
She’s tugging at my shirt, she is blocking the doorways. She looks up at me with her glassy eyes, her chin quivery and snot running down her face; I can’t stand looking into those big brown pathetic eyes.
Those are the worst of the roommates. There is a boy too though. He’s gorgeous; he is never aggressive, never mean, and never nasty. He generally keeps to himself and stays in his room.
“YOU’RE USELESS! I HATE YOU! YOU DON’T BELONG HERE! NOBODY LIKES YOU!”
There is another girl too, she isn’t as aggressive as Blondie, but just the same, she follows me around all day, all night. She’s always crying, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without her sniffles, her tears, her puffy red eyes.
“WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME? WHAT DID I DO TO YOU? WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME? YOU LEFT ME; YOU LEFT ME ALL ALONE WHEN I NEEDED YOU!”
She’s tugging at my shirt, she is blocking the doorways. She looks up at me with her glassy eyes, her chin quivery and snot running down her face; I can’t stand looking into those big brown pathetic eyes.
Those are the worst of the roommates. There is a boy too though. He’s gorgeous; he is never aggressive, never mean, and never nasty. He generally keeps to himself and stays in his room.
Oddly enough, though, he bothers me the most. If I go past his room, he just looks at me. Stares at me. Looks through me. His perfect face is like stone, his golden red 5 o’clock shadow covers his strong chin, his green eyes are filled with pain, and your heart aches to look into them.
“What did I do? How could you? I loved you, didn’t you love me?”
His eyes fill with tears, and I walk down the hall.
The old lady comes out of her room. She looks me square in the eyes and says, “Sweetie, you are alone. I’m sorry but that is the truth. No one will ever love you, you are tainted.” She stands with her hand on her hip and sticks her finger in my face. I smack it away. She smells of a sweet perfume, and hairspray. She makes me feel like I could be safe with her in the house. She hugs me, strokes my hair and whispers to me. “Honey, you are alone, always alone. No one will ever be there; nothing will make you feel better.”
“What did I do? How could you? I loved you, didn’t you love me?”
His eyes fill with tears, and I walk down the hall.
The old lady comes out of her room. She looks me square in the eyes and says, “Sweetie, you are alone. I’m sorry but that is the truth. No one will ever love you, you are tainted.” She stands with her hand on her hip and sticks her finger in my face. I smack it away. She smells of a sweet perfume, and hairspray. She makes me feel like I could be safe with her in the house. She hugs me, strokes my hair and whispers to me. “Honey, you are alone, always alone. No one will ever be there; nothing will make you feel better.”
I push her away and go to my room.
I can’t sleep most of the time, after I lock everyone in their rooms. I go to my own room and try to get some peace.
I can’t sleep most of the time, after I lock everyone in their rooms. I go to my own room and try to get some peace.
My head feels fuzzy, my eyes droop, the world is starting to fade away, and then I hear it.
It’s so soft sometimes that I miss it, other times it's so loud I fear my head will explode. It’s a baby, or a toddler, I don’t know. I’ve never seen it, just heard it. One night its cries were so loud, so desperate, that I went down the hallway to the room they were coming from. I thought that if I could save this baby from whatever was happening, then I could get some sleep, some peace, some serenity. But when I got to the door, I couldn’t open it.
The baby squealed, wailed actually, like a tiny banshee. I’ve never heard a more terrible sound. A tired little whimper escaped from the room. I thought back to my childhood, when my grandmother and I would volunteer at the pound. I remembered that whimper. The puppies there had been abused. I remembered holding one puppy's tiny shaking body. He had been beaten, tortured, starved.
I remember how I could feel his ribs through the mangy fur; I kissed him on his torn ear. I would play with him, nuzzle him, love him; and then it was time to go. I promised the mutt that everything would be ok, that I would find it a home. I never kept that promise. Like the puppy this baby had to be alone too. Probably scared, hungry, wet, and shivering. Its cries are so piercing. If only I could make them stop. The door won’t open, and you know what? Maybe I don’t want to open it. So I go back to my room and lay down. The crying stops. It’s whimpering now, soft sobs, heart wrenching sobs.
I wake up the next day and it’s very quiet. I sit in bed, still warm with sleep, and enjoy the sound of nothing. I get up and open my door, preparing myself for the walk down the hallway. I take a step out on the cold floor…
“I HATE YOU! YOU’RE FAT AND UGLY AND NO ONE LOVES YOU! WHY CAN’T YOU JUST DIE?”
“WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME? I NEEDED YOU SO MUCH, YOU LEFT ME WHEN I NEEDED YOU, YOU DIDN’T EVEN SAY GOODBYE!”
I push Blondie out of the way; the old woman is trying to embrace me, I tug my shirttail away from the brunettes blubbering, I feel the boys eyes grasp onto me. The baby is crying again. Whose baby is that? I turn the corner and then I see her, the Beauty Queen.
Sometimes I forget she is there, she never talks, never does anything. She just sits in from of the mirror, curling her hair, painting her nails, straightening her hair, trying on blue make up, pink makeup, ooops...too much eyeliner. She braids her hair.
She is pretty, until you see the scars. Her arms are covered in them, small straight cuts, all the same size, they start at her wrist and go up to her elbow. Some are white scares, some are just pink, most are crimson red, and others are still caked in blood. If you look closely you can see her legs have scars too. She sits there and tries to cover them with makeup, but there are too many, they are too deep, they are fresh enough that they sting. Frustrated she throws the makeup brush at the mirror; claws at her hair, black tears streak her face, her makeup ruined. Then suddenly, as if someone had drugged her, she stops. Then like nothing ever happened, starts brushing her hair again, starts painting on her face again.
The baby is crying, that piercing banshee shriek again, why won’t anyone help it? I head back to my room but to no avail the yelling continues.
“WHY DON’T YOU JUST KILL YOURSELF? NOBODY LOVES YOU!”
I try to push Blondie off, but she is so strong. I squirm out from underneath her fall into the old woman’s arms.
“She is right you know. Sweetie, no one will ever love you, and no one ever did. That’s just how life is.”
I push her away, the crying brunette pulls at my shirt, tries to get close to me, tries to get my attention, she is so close I can feel her tremble, taste her salty tears. The baby hollers. I’m scrambling to get away, I need a way out, Blondie and the old women are smothering me again, I smell perfume and hairspray, I taste salt, I feel nails breaking my skin. The baby’s wails pierce my ears. I’ve fallen into the boy’s frigid room. His eyes are so cold they shatter my heart. Beauty Queen throws a hairbrush my way, a tube of lipstick hits my cheek. And suddenly I can’t stand it anymore.
“GO AWAY! LEAVE ME ALONE! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?”
As I escape towards my room, I can’t breathe.
“DON’T TOUCH ME! I MEAN IT! I’M DONE! GET AWAY FROM ME! CAN SOMEONE SHUT THAT DAMN BABY UP?”
I reach my room, lock the door and sink to the floor in a mess of blood, tears, and humiliation. I didn’t ask for this, I don’t want this. I don’t remember falling asleep.
I wake up in my bed, still dressed from yesterday and decide that I’m not going to put up with this anymore. I go to my desk, rummage through the draws for a paper and pen. I’m going to write the roommates a letter, it seems silly, and perhaps it won’t change anything, but this way they will know how I feel. Before I know it the pencil is scratching on the paper. My hand flows so fast I can barely read what I’m writing.
Blondie, don’t ever touch me again, I am worth something, I am a person.
The baby squealed, wailed actually, like a tiny banshee. I’ve never heard a more terrible sound. A tired little whimper escaped from the room. I thought back to my childhood, when my grandmother and I would volunteer at the pound. I remembered that whimper. The puppies there had been abused. I remembered holding one puppy's tiny shaking body. He had been beaten, tortured, starved.
I remember how I could feel his ribs through the mangy fur; I kissed him on his torn ear. I would play with him, nuzzle him, love him; and then it was time to go. I promised the mutt that everything would be ok, that I would find it a home. I never kept that promise. Like the puppy this baby had to be alone too. Probably scared, hungry, wet, and shivering. Its cries are so piercing. If only I could make them stop. The door won’t open, and you know what? Maybe I don’t want to open it. So I go back to my room and lay down. The crying stops. It’s whimpering now, soft sobs, heart wrenching sobs.
I wake up the next day and it’s very quiet. I sit in bed, still warm with sleep, and enjoy the sound of nothing. I get up and open my door, preparing myself for the walk down the hallway. I take a step out on the cold floor…
“I HATE YOU! YOU’RE FAT AND UGLY AND NO ONE LOVES YOU! WHY CAN’T YOU JUST DIE?”
“WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME? I NEEDED YOU SO MUCH, YOU LEFT ME WHEN I NEEDED YOU, YOU DIDN’T EVEN SAY GOODBYE!”
I push Blondie out of the way; the old woman is trying to embrace me, I tug my shirttail away from the brunettes blubbering, I feel the boys eyes grasp onto me. The baby is crying again. Whose baby is that? I turn the corner and then I see her, the Beauty Queen.
Sometimes I forget she is there, she never talks, never does anything. She just sits in from of the mirror, curling her hair, painting her nails, straightening her hair, trying on blue make up, pink makeup, ooops...too much eyeliner. She braids her hair.
She is pretty, until you see the scars. Her arms are covered in them, small straight cuts, all the same size, they start at her wrist and go up to her elbow. Some are white scares, some are just pink, most are crimson red, and others are still caked in blood. If you look closely you can see her legs have scars too. She sits there and tries to cover them with makeup, but there are too many, they are too deep, they are fresh enough that they sting. Frustrated she throws the makeup brush at the mirror; claws at her hair, black tears streak her face, her makeup ruined. Then suddenly, as if someone had drugged her, she stops. Then like nothing ever happened, starts brushing her hair again, starts painting on her face again.
The baby is crying, that piercing banshee shriek again, why won’t anyone help it? I head back to my room but to no avail the yelling continues.
“WHY DON’T YOU JUST KILL YOURSELF? NOBODY LOVES YOU!”
I try to push Blondie off, but she is so strong. I squirm out from underneath her fall into the old woman’s arms.
“She is right you know. Sweetie, no one will ever love you, and no one ever did. That’s just how life is.”
I push her away, the crying brunette pulls at my shirt, tries to get close to me, tries to get my attention, she is so close I can feel her tremble, taste her salty tears. The baby hollers. I’m scrambling to get away, I need a way out, Blondie and the old women are smothering me again, I smell perfume and hairspray, I taste salt, I feel nails breaking my skin. The baby’s wails pierce my ears. I’ve fallen into the boy’s frigid room. His eyes are so cold they shatter my heart. Beauty Queen throws a hairbrush my way, a tube of lipstick hits my cheek. And suddenly I can’t stand it anymore.
“GO AWAY! LEAVE ME ALONE! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?”
As I escape towards my room, I can’t breathe.
“DON’T TOUCH ME! I MEAN IT! I’M DONE! GET AWAY FROM ME! CAN SOMEONE SHUT THAT DAMN BABY UP?”
I reach my room, lock the door and sink to the floor in a mess of blood, tears, and humiliation. I didn’t ask for this, I don’t want this. I don’t remember falling asleep.
I wake up in my bed, still dressed from yesterday and decide that I’m not going to put up with this anymore. I go to my desk, rummage through the draws for a paper and pen. I’m going to write the roommates a letter, it seems silly, and perhaps it won’t change anything, but this way they will know how I feel. Before I know it the pencil is scratching on the paper. My hand flows so fast I can barely read what I’m writing.
Blondie, don’t ever touch me again, I am worth something, I am a person.
The point of the pencil breaks, and I don’t even care.
I was wrong, please don’t cry anymore, I’m sorry for what I’ve done, will I ever see love in those green eyes again?
My wrist is burning, the wood digging into my pencil.
Beauty Queen, you are beautiful, you don’t need makeup, let those scares heal, you are gorgeous just how you are. Little baby, If I could find you I would help you. Where are you? How can I save you?
Seconds turn into minutes, minutes into hours, I am finally done. I stand up, and get ready to give these letters to the roommates. I open my door, and it’s silent.
The air is still, it’s bright in the house. The sun is shining in the windows, and you can see the dust in the air. I hear birds. I walk down the hallway, and look into the bedrooms. Nothing, the boy is gone, Blondie is gone, no one is crying, no one is looking in the mirror. The house is silent, it’s just me. I just stand in the center of it all and look around. Everything in a mess, furniture is overturned, plates are smashed, the wallpaper is coming right off the walls. I don’t smell hairspray, I don’t smell anything. I hear my own heart beat, the sound is foreign.
I spent hours walking about the house, MY house. I started to clean things up; I opened the windows to let fresh air in. I laughed for no reason, I sang in the shower. My house was mine again; I was alone with myself and my thoughts. I began looking around for any trace of my roommates. Searching in corners, closets, breezeways, I found nothing.
I found them in the most peculiar spot. I found them in my room; on my desk. Buried in the pages of my journal. They were all there, I could see them all in the pages, and they were locked away there.
The house is slowly being repaired, it needs a lot of work; but it feels good to fix it. I found a baby crib and a yellow baby blanket. I haven’t moved it out of the house yet, I don’t know why. Sometimes I’ll find a bassinet in a closet, or a rattle on my dresser. I have yet to decide whether I’m bothered by the small tokens. I’ve had other roommates move in, but they have only stayed in the house for a short time. I’ve learned to deal with them, if they get too rowdy I just sit and write them a letter, and they get the point. I still have that journal, and more roommates have moved into it. My journal of solitude.
Writer Lori Walker is a junior at the University at Albany, State University of New York. She is majoring in Psychology.
Seconds turn into minutes, minutes into hours, I am finally done. I stand up, and get ready to give these letters to the roommates. I open my door, and it’s silent.
The air is still, it’s bright in the house. The sun is shining in the windows, and you can see the dust in the air. I hear birds. I walk down the hallway, and look into the bedrooms. Nothing, the boy is gone, Blondie is gone, no one is crying, no one is looking in the mirror. The house is silent, it’s just me. I just stand in the center of it all and look around. Everything in a mess, furniture is overturned, plates are smashed, the wallpaper is coming right off the walls. I don’t smell hairspray, I don’t smell anything. I hear my own heart beat, the sound is foreign.
I spent hours walking about the house, MY house. I started to clean things up; I opened the windows to let fresh air in. I laughed for no reason, I sang in the shower. My house was mine again; I was alone with myself and my thoughts. I began looking around for any trace of my roommates. Searching in corners, closets, breezeways, I found nothing.
I found them in the most peculiar spot. I found them in my room; on my desk. Buried in the pages of my journal. They were all there, I could see them all in the pages, and they were locked away there.
The house is slowly being repaired, it needs a lot of work; but it feels good to fix it. I found a baby crib and a yellow baby blanket. I haven’t moved it out of the house yet, I don’t know why. Sometimes I’ll find a bassinet in a closet, or a rattle on my dresser. I have yet to decide whether I’m bothered by the small tokens. I’ve had other roommates move in, but they have only stayed in the house for a short time. I’ve learned to deal with them, if they get too rowdy I just sit and write them a letter, and they get the point. I still have that journal, and more roommates have moved into it. My journal of solitude.
Writer Lori Walker is a junior at the University at Albany, State University of New York. She is majoring in Psychology.
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