Eileen

by Ottessa Moshfegh

During the day, the top layer of snow melted and the slush in the gutters loosened a bit and you remembered that life was joyful from time to time, that the sun did shine.

And unless you’ve grown up in New England, you don’t know the peculiar stillness of a coastal town covered in snow at night.

I didn’t know that there were others like me in the world, those who didn’t “fit in,” as people like to put it. Furthermore, as is typical for any isolated, intelligent young person, I thought I was the only one with any consciousness, any awareness of how odd it was to be alive, to be a creature on this strange planet Earth.

I’d never learned how to relate to people, much less how to speak up for myself. I preferred to sit and rage quietly.

There was, of course, a sense of comfort in X-ville. Imagine an old man walking a golden retriever, a woman lifting a bag of groceries from her car. There was really nothing so very wrong with the place. If you were passing through, you’d think that everything was fine there. Everything was wonderful. Even my car with the broken exhaust and the biting cold at my ears was fine and wonderful. I hated it, and I loved it.

I can imagine myself saying at the time that life itself was like a book borrowed from the library—something that did not belong to me and was due to expire. How silly.

It also concerned me that my demise would have no great impact, that I could blow my head off and people would say, “That’s all right. Let’s get something to eat.”

My prom dress was very pretty, though—navy taffeta. I loved navy blue. Whatever I wore in that color reminded me of a uniform, something that I felt validated me and obscured me at once.

I sensed it immediately. My life was going to change.

There’s nothing I detest more than men with happy childhoods.

But as a young woman in X-ville, I had no idea that other people—men or women—felt things as deeply as I did. I had no compassion for anyone unless his suffering allowed me to indulge in my own. My development was very stunted in this regard.

I fantasized how I’d change my appearance once I got to New York, the clothes I’d wear, how I’d cut my hair, color it if need be, or wear a long wig, a false pair of glasses. I could change my name if I wanted, I thought. “Rebecca” was as good a name as any. There was time, I told myself, to sort out the future. The future could wait, I thought.

The Beach Boys came on the radio. I didn’t understand rock ’n’ roll back then—most rock songs made me want to slit my wrists, made me feel there was a wonderful party happening somewhere, and I was missing it—but I may have jiggled a little in my seat that day. I felt happy. I hardly felt like myself.

Here is how I spend my days now. I live in a beautiful place. I sleep in a beautiful bed. I eat beautiful food. I go for walks through beautiful places. I care for people deeply. At night my bed is full of love, because I alone am in it. I cry easily, from pain and pleasure, and I don’t apologize for that. In the mornings I step outside and I’m thankful for another day. It took me many years to arrive at such a life.