I know I’m going to sound weird and ridiculous, but I really think that you can classify silence. There are the two common ones, the comfortable kind and the much more popular, the awkward kind of silence. Then there is the reproachful kind, and the exasperated and annoyed kind, usually used by mothers and girlfriends/wives. And then there is the one which comes out and boinks you on the head, jerking us up to break it. It’s not the same as the awkward kind, it’s much more acerbic and forceful, and almost always, no actually, always makes you say or do something stupid.
And so as I sat all hunched up in the passenger’s seat of my ex-boyfriend’s car, on my way back home from a mutual friend’s soiree, I expected a long, awkward silent drive. What I did not expect was that I would be visited by his absolutely unwelcome cousin, the boinker-on-the-head. Now I know that when people talk about ex-relationships, they always assume that there is either a lot of bitterness, or a lot of smouldering tension involved in it. Even when all the sympathetic queries are met with “oh no, it was a mutual decision, it was what we both wanted, we are still very good friends”, it’s usually met with reactions indicating anything from “yeah right, and the voodoo dolls hidden in your closet are just for a project for your unborn kid”, to “poor thing, you can actually see her eyes swelling up with the reined in tears”…
But ours was…well, mutual in a way… he wanted a ‘break’ (I swear, it’s like Friends opened up a box full of new-age clichés), and I just wanted out, not just a break. But I was too much of a coward to bring it up. That is my phobia, a fear of confrontation. So I was so relieved when he brought it up, I went all blank. No tears, no soft, sad smile, no whoops in the air, nothing… In my defence, I had reached a fairly crucial level in Angry Birds, just one ugly green pig was left, but it had a stupid Christmas hat on, and I had just one angry bird left. So I didn’t even register what he said for some time, until I realized he was waiting for a response from me, a logical response. So I came up with an “ummm, OK”, which in a weird way made things worse.
I was never a very demonstrative person, but this seemed extreme even for me. We went out for some three years. In three years some people get married and reached the ‘we are expecting’ stage. You don’t dismiss it with an ‘umm ok’, and continue yelling “die, you ugly bastard!” So…everyone automatically assumed that I was hiding massive tons of hurt beneath my calm exterior, which I wasn’t. But people have a very annoying habit of assigning what they think is appropriate behaviour for you, and judge you on those parameters. They didn’t really take away my stapler or all sharp objects, like knives or corkscrews away from me, but you could see them giving a very serious thought to it.
Coming back to my awkward situation in the car with my ex, after some 15 minutes of fighting the boinker, I caved in. I could have started on with conventional talk topics like ‘so what is up with you nowadays’ and so on, but thanks to our numerous mutual friends; I was kept pretty well updated to his recent happenings. So instead of passing on to some other inane conversational chestnuts, I asked him “If you ever wanted to dispose of a body, where would you do it?”
Well, honestly how do you answer a question like that? Who in his or her right mind spends time pondering on how to dispose of cadavers? So he, being the normal guy that he is, replied with an “uhhh…” So I jumped in, and started describing my top 10 body disposal sites. They were pretty awesome, and this I can say with total neutrality. They ranged from a wilderness right next to a sewage canal, to an abandoned supply factory, which is completely overgrown with weeds. I could see him squirming in his seat now and then, but that I attributed to his uneasiness with his seat belt and/or a tight pair of undies.
But then I finished my 15 minute long presentation, and he said “Wow, you really need to visit a psychiatrist!” Really? Huh, and I thought I was being interesting. I guess there is a very thin line between being interesting and being pathological. And whether you have crossed the line or not, depends entirely upon your audience. So I decided to just shut up, and that’s what I told the annoying voice prodding me to try again. I tried, I bombed and that’s the end of it. Next time I’ll drive down myself, and most probably I won’t have to hear of this again, or so I thought…
Two days later he disappeared. My ex-boyfriend, that is.
What I had forgotten to mention before, is that while I was showing off my psychopathic dark side, perched on the passenger seat, the back seat was occupied by his sister and her fiancé. So obviously when he just decided to disappear, which admittedly, was extremely unusual for him, she just freaked out, thinking I had something to do with it. Talk of being paranoid!
I was till then, blissfully unaware of the drama that was about to take over my life. I was planning to take a short trip over the weekend with my cousin (“it’ll do you good to take your mind off things”). So while I was getting termed as a vengeful, crazy murderer, I was struggling to get reservations at a hotel who seriously seemed to hire receptionists straight from the University of Duh (not mine, obviously!). I had just flung my cell down in frustration when it rang again. It was my friend (the one who gave the party…just thought people would want to know…), who as soon as I picked up the call, asked me “Did you really kill him”? I got a bit psyched out with her psychic powers; I admit I was sending pretty vicious thoughts across to that stupid receptionist. I countered with a careful “What are you talking about”?
I couldn’t believe it. I honestly thought it was all a joke. I mean, the prospect of anyone casting me in the role of a psycho killer was so ludicrous! But it wasn’t so funny when I got a nice little visit from the even nicer police guy. He asked me where was I the night before, and gently warned me not to move out of the city at the moment. Very nice, very polite, very unlike what I always pictured them as, and very scary, like some really badly written crime novella. And instead of the nice and pretty heroine, I was more like Glenn Close with a fatal attraction. I stopped getting calls from my friends, and started getting a lot of calls from my family. It was a nightmare, and I knew that I should be worried about him, but all I could manage was extreme fury. If he was planning on being in an accident, or getting mugged or killed, the least he could do was send a text someone saying I didn’t do it. It became so bad that I actually started believing in it, started thinking that maybe I suffered from schizophrenia, or a dual personality disorder, where I did go out and kill him, and I just don’t remember it.
Even my office wasn’t the safe haven it used to be. I used to escape to my office whenever I used to be a bit disturbed. That ecosphere filled with so many different kinds of people, stupid and accomplished, obnoxious and maternal, condescending and obsequious, I used to love being there. But now even that was poisoned, I still don’t know whether there was any tangible change in their behaviour, or was it only my raw sensitivity that made it seem so, but I was so ill at ease. And then my superior called me up and told me that they want me to go on a sabbatical, maybe get some sessions with a professional psychologist to help me out with my issues, which was apparently affecting my performance. I just nodded and left, what was the point of me arguing?
I looked up some psychologists on the Internet; I called up the nearest ones, and made an appointment with one of them. I was by this time resigned to my fate. Who would have known that a totally weird approach to deal with an awkward silence would lead to this, treated like a pariah by my friends, a deranged worker by my colleagues and to top it all, a psychopathic killer by the police, who had by now searched all my top ten disposal sites in search of a body. They did find a couple of dead dogs, thankfully there wasn’t any legislation against unnatural animal deaths, yet.
The next day as I roused myself to go for my appointment, resigned to accepting whatever diagnosis she would come up with, whatever mental disease I was suffering from, the phone rang. It had become such a stranger to me, that sound, that I couldn’t answer it the first time. Then it rang again. I picked it up, listened, and carefully placed the phone back. I took a deep breath, stared at the address and the number in my hand, of the psychologist, deliberating on what to do now…
And so here I am, sitting in the waiting room of the psychologist, waiting for my turn to come. But now I’m much more relaxed, knowing the truth is such a laxative! Knowing that the guy who turned my life into a living hell is alright, all that is wrong with him is a sick sense of right and wrong, which makes him go out, have one-night stands with a random stranger, spend days at her place, without a single call or notification to anyone. I know that if anyone needs a session with a shrink it’s him, for there can be no rhyme or reason to his bizarre behaviour. And yet, here I am, waiting for my turn at the psychologist, hoping that there could be a pill or something that can make me stop talking at the onset of awkward silence…
I hope this is just a story!
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