Centipede

I saw a centipede in the shower this morning.

At first I thought it was a clump of hair, but it quivered and twitched. I thought about leaving it there and showing it up to my meetings with greasy hair. But then where would it go? Would it dry up and climb out to haunt me in my sleep? Would I be able to shower later, realistically?

Sherwin's father came downstairs to take care of it for me. He smiled weakly, tissue in hand, as I showed him the way. Bent down and got it as I clasped my hands over my mouth, half-embarrassed and half-thrilled. The way that fear can be thrilling. He stepped back into the kitchen and examined it.

“Old house,” he said, smiling.

I smiled back and nodded my head in reassurance. “Yes it’s an old house. Thank you so much, it just freaks me out. I really appreciate it.” He was so kind that later I wondered if the centipede had showed up so that I could experience someone helping me. I’d only seen him downstairs once before to mop the floors. He’d turned the ceiling fan on for me then, before he left, because it was so hot inside the kitchen. I do love being taken care of.

I went back into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. “I want to go home,” I thought, looking at my face. But I’d wanted to go home since the day I left. “4 more sleeps,” I whispered. “2 more showers.” I thought about the centipede from a few weeks prior, and the sleepless night that followed. That one got away. Only now am I wondering if it could have been the same one, even.. could be.

I approached the tub and looked at where the centipede had been. I stooped down low to examine the area. Most people don’t pay as close attention to things as I do. The other people living here leave food stuck to the forks after they’ve washed them. And yes, indeed, there was a tiny leg still in the tub. I took a small yogurt container that I’d been using to soak my earplugs, filled it with water and carefully washed that leg down the drain in the bathtub. As I watched it flow down the little river I’d made, I thought about my own leg being washed down a drain.

Later in the shower, after I conditioned my hair and was dealing with the clumps that had fallen out, I recoiled from how much my hair resembled the centipede. I laid a clump down on the side of the tub to throw away later, mentally telling myself, “it’s only your hair. It’s not a centipede. If you see it later, don’t be startled.” Then added, “but if you are startled, that’s okay. It’s just your body trying to protect itself.” I looked down at my body and saw bits of hair on my arm, my stomach, my leg. Why now? That never happens. Like little centipedes stuck to my skin. I gathered them up and placed them on the side of the tub with the rest.

So similar looking, really. Same color, same frail legs. The way the shower centipede had been curled in on itself, too wet to go anywhere.. it did look like my hair. And what if I’d been curled up, too wet to move? Last weekend I got caught in a thunderstorm and crouched on the sidewalk next to a parked car, holding my umbrella against the wind. I could never be too wet to move, but I need help sometimes. I needed help killing this little thing that needed help. So that I could shower and go to work. So that I could make it through the next 4 days.

I didn’t need it though. Couldn’t I just change my mind? Couldn’t I just shake, and cry, and change into a person who handles centipedes with a calm kindness? I already have compassion; it’s currently standing behind my body’s disgust, watching me. It’s standing behind my fear and my habits and my responsibilities.

I’m crying now and I’m not sure why. Maybe because I’m this incredibly flawed person with eyes that exceed her capabilities. Vision that exceeds her conditioning. I make slow progress, and I’ll die before I reach what I’m aiming for. I killed an animated clump of my hair, the way an impatient nurse might neglect me when I’m old and disgusting.

I’ve wanted to go home since I got here. I had to drive 10 hours away and pay in advance so I’d stay the month. I still want to go home, now. I want to go home where my best friend kills the spiders. Where my sheets are made of percale instead of polyester, and my room decorated with beautiful fake plants and dozens of pictures that I took of myself, instead of a sign that says “NO SMOKING NO VAPING”. Where I can keep my things in the bathroom and not have to put clothes on to pee at night. Where things are clean, where I don’t need to inspect the forks, where I can take a bath, where I can take a breath! A place where I can dance and sing and play guitar. Someone to whom I can say “good morning khaaaa!!” Even the big smelly dog who wakes me up by howling at ambulances, but will look at me so cutely if I approach her at the gate.

I know part of me will miss this place, too. When I can look back far removed from the discomfort and the isolation. There will be something romantic about it. I’ll look at the pictures I took of myself in this room and want to press them into my skin. I want to be this person. I want to be independent and confident and bold. I want to travel, not needing anyone, blazing some trail that no one can see. I want to be the tortured artist and the capable engineer. I want to be hot, and cool. I want to be someone I want to fuck. I want to be someone I respect. I want to be someone I love. I want to hold myself in high regard. I want to be proud of myself and my life.

And yet, all of this wanting makes me want to give up and die. I’ll never be these things as long as I try. Because I think I already am those things. And I think I’m just a perfectly fine woman sitting in a room feeling uncomfortable. Like when I was a child, making up a life in my head because I couldn’t figure out how to live in the world around me. These are not the kinds of things I achieve, or resolve. They’re the kinds of things I forget to think about when I’m happy. Things that are only important to someone who is disconnected. A quest to find a better stone to suck on while my body wastes away. A never ending game to play while I’m slowly dying. A puzzle for a woman sitting alone in a room. A tiny thing to be terrified of while I wait to go home. A centipede in the shower to obsess over for hours.