I am waiting for Her to arrive, like He said She would.
I am acting as if I don’t know She is going to, like He told me to do.
Being an actress was always intriguing to me, so I tell myself that this is my rehearsal.
I imagine a blend of Natalie Portman, Drew Barrymore, and Angelina Jolie.
Graceful and refined, light and free, fierce and kick-ass.
Yes, I am a graceful, refined, light, free, fierce, kick-ass Psychiatric Social Worker, waiting for the doctor who I am working with to arrive, who happens to be the wife of the man I am in love with. And much to Her shock, anger, surprise, and pain, Her husband appears to be in love with me. And the three of us all work together in the same hospital department.
There is a heavy weight on my chest, making it impossible to take a full, deep breath. My heart occasionally palpitates. My knees bounce off each other. I twist and twirl my hair into small knots, an obnoxious habit I learned from my mother in 2nd grade. The Xanax that I ran into the staff bathroom and popped after crying quietly in the stall has not touched my anxiety. I remind myself that I have seen enough patients with the exact symptoms diagnosed with panic attacks, and No, Jessica, You Are Not Having A Heart Attack.
I woke up at 5am today, my new normal waking time, easily ran 13 miles in the park, consumed only coffee, whiskey and Nyquil in the past 72 hours—wait, does Nyquil count as a food? Jesus, Jessica, no it does not—and I still have as much energy as a methamphetamine patient.
My heart, chest, and stomach are screaming at me to bolt out of the building, to feign illness, to use the family emergency card, but my mind takes over:
a) I couldn’t do that to my patients or co-workers (recovering Catholic/easily feel guilt)
b) I love my job (strong work ethic/need to feel valued)
c) I couldn’t handle the repercussions (strong fear of being scolded and yelled at)
d) She knows I am working, and purposely changed Her schedule to work with me, and if I am not there, She will know that He and I are
communicating and that He told me She was coming. That is the test. (And I strive for 100% on every test.)
My Co-worker/Soon-To-Be-Ex-Friend looks at me uncomfortably and attempts to make meaningless small talk, easily giving herself away that she is part of this scheme.
I know the moment She walks in. Not because I hear Her voice or see Her, but because of the reactions of some of the thirty-plus staff working that day. Conversations pause. Eyes widen and look away. Some smirk and hold back laughter. Some look at me with sympathy. There is a loss of pressure in the air, I am certain I am not imagining it.
I find myself utilizing the some of the same self-soothing and distracting techniques I educate my patients about. Pearl Jam lyrics swirl through my head to soothe and strengthen me. What was the name of that plaza in Prague I loved where I felt so serene? I will be all right, I will be all right.
She pulls up the chair behind me, and sits to my back, inches away. My Co-worker/Soon-To-Be-Ex-Friend squirms and nervously smiles and says Hi! How are You?!? to Her. The Bitchy Charge Nurse asks about Her Golden Children. The Conservative Righteous Doctor asks how the kiteboarding trip to Mexico was and wasn’t that Pilates class at the MAC an amazing workout?!? I can’t see Her, but She is tall, tan, thin, and beautiful and Her smirking grin and narrow eyes radiate fear through me.
I have suicidal and psychotic patients waiting to be assessed, but not budging from my chair for as long as possible is more important to me than comforting someone else right now. I am going to sit my ass in this chair for as much as I can during the next 6 hours of my shift. It is clear, without being spoken, that whoever sits in their chair the longest is the Winner of The Game.
I open my email and lose my breath a bit before I open it, fearing another email from Her. They come about every week and are sent from an unknown sender or from my own email account that She hacked into, and all the body of the email ever says is “Pathetic,” the same word that I found written on my car early one morning last week. [Thank you, Ex-Boyfriend, for giving Her my address.]
I hear Her pick up the phone and dial and I already know what She is about to do.
“Hi honey…Just checking in….What did you make for dinner?….Have the kids done their homework?….Ok, well everything is going well here….Uh-huh….Ok. I love you. Bye.”
Despite the feeling of my heart clenched in a trap, I almost want to congratulate Her, give Her a high five, and say “Nice one.” You win that match. 3-point shot. 2-point conversion.
The little Catholic, Wisconsin girl inside me who wants everyone to like her is pleading: I didn’t want this to happen! I didn’t ask for this! I didn’t do this intentionally! Your husband pursued me! I ended an eight-year relationship for Him! He said He wanted to wake up with me and make me oatmeal for breakfast the rest of my life! He said He loved me because I was a girl who could backpack in Mt. Hood one night, and go out in a vintage cocktail dress in Paris the next! I just believe in true love! I am not an evil person!
And I know that I am not. But I also know that there are few absolutes in life, and despising The Other Woman is one of them.
And in the end, She/He/They have more power than I, and She/He/They will win this game.
