Where Are Your Ghosts?

"I follow him up the steps to his building, climbing over the ghost of me from last night, up to his apartment on the top floor."

The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing by Melissa Bank

I just finished reading this book, and the above excerpt got me thinking. Jane is referring to the drunken ghost of herself sitting on the stoop of Andrew's apartment complex, wondering if she should ring the doorbell and explain all the ways she fucked up their happily ever after. Instead, she waits until tomorrow, and finds herself, Andrew in arm, climbing up the stairs, stepping over last night's Jane.

Ghosts of me are all over New Jersey. That's kind of why I opted to move 2,000 miles away. I couldn't stand to see the hazy visions of me anymore. Everywhere I went there was the 'Fucked Up' Zube Girl of years past. The shadow; traipsing along I-95 in her genie costume on Halloween blubbering to herself about what the result of the HIV test she'd taken that morning would be and why in the hell did that asshole have to rape her anyway...or puking in the bathroom at McGuin's wondering if she'll go to hell like the priest said that one time in church about women who had abortions.

Sometimes, in fact many times, she is not alone. Zube Girl is accompanied by the most beautiful friends imaginable. Friends who cared enough to be human ponytail holders as she hurled up the Medori Sours she loved so much. Probably because those drinks were such a happy color, and happy was an emotion she sought with the ferocity of an addict pursuing her next high. These friends would whisper to another that someone should go get the car started because she needed to get home.

They'd mouth as though they were in the presence of a child "She's upset about the rape." And keys would fly out of pockets left and right. She was going home. Or I was. Because she was me. And I was her. Together, we were the fucked up girl. The girl who was raped.

When my ghost isn't surrounded by loving friends, she is alone. Those are the worst of the visions that haunt me. I had a brass set of sad balls that convinced me to walk home whenever I felt undeserving of friends. And I felt that way often. And I probably didn't deserve them. I'd suck the happiness right out of them, however unintentionally. Then I'd feel guilty as all hell about it. I wasn't good for them; for their happiness. Ergo, they weren't good for me. You know, guilt and such.

Afraid that if I announced I wanted to leave, someone might protest, or care, I'd silently slide out the back door of a party, and put one foot in front of another. Five miles...twenty six miles. No distance scared me. Usually because I was under the influence of copious amounts of alcohol, and felt as though the strength of my sorrow could carry me anywhere.

Even now, as I prepare to embark on another trip to Jersey, I'm thinking about where I'll see her. Most certainly I'll see her on I-95 because you can't really go a damn place without getting on that highway, especially if you want to buy some cute new clothes at Quakerbridge Mall. Which I do. So I'll have to pass her.

It's always bittersweet to see my ghost because I love her now. I didn't then. And I know that that's why she was so fond of fucking up and of getting fucked up. Because I hated her, and I was all she had.

Maybe someday I'll get close enough to give her a hug and thank her for getting me through those years. I'll tell her that she needn't feel bad that she was imperfect about it. Because here I am, years later, quite okay. Thanks to her.

Until then, I'll just love her for who she was. Who I am. However imperfect.