Post-Traumatic

by Chantal V. Johnson

And the ones she actually went out with? The cinematographer ghosted her after a solid first date. The lit professor claimed to be separated, but when she asked to go back to his place, he admitted to still living with his wife. The painter told her, after a night of passionate sex, that there was “no spark.” Veering away from men in the arts, she dated a tax analyst, thinking his rationality would predispose him to see her as a great catch and to treat her well. He had a panic attack while he was inside her and began muttering about his ex-girlfriend, who had recently reappeared in his life and with whom, he said, he was more simpatico, “because she wants kids, you know,” unlike Vivian, who had cheekily announced her intention to remain child-free on their first date.

This paragraph feels like a personal attack lol except the painter told me he was living with his girlfriend and the photographer told me there was no spark and the 'practical' bus driver's 'ex' was actually the nation of islam

Vivian saw how over time the older girl would internalize her mother’s contempt, treating herself with brutality whenever any needs surfaced. But by then, the memory of her mother’s loathing having receded, she would be unable to locate its source. It would just seem as if she were “like that.”

Leering men were often unattractive. She hadn’t quite grasped the psychology of it. Maybe being ugly meant they had nothing to lose. Or maybe the ugly man compensates for his ugliness by being a brute, a counterphobic reaction. In any case, such lewd behavior offended Vivian not only as a feminist but also as a shallow person who believed that although she was no model, she was at least more attractive than the man in question. How dare he address her at all?

“You’re a killjoy,” Jane said, inhaling to take a beat, like all the great stoner sages do. “But it’s political. The ‘joy’ is misogyny.”

“Remember Trevor, that kid I tutored who revealed in an essay that he’d been abused? He got into Wesleyan!” “Aw, that’s a great place to go if you were abused.”

“Well,” Vivian said. “My mom certainly thinks I owe her. You know, family is everything. Blood is thicker than water. The fuck does that even mean?” “I think it means that even if you’re an ocean away, they’ll find your ass.”

Vivian noticed, suddenly, that in her fantasy state, the feelings of ugliness and contamination had eased. This seemed important somehow. She should make a note in her phone, a note saying that she had successfully, and somewhat automatically, gotten myself out of the feeling of ugliness by imagining a performance that would make someone fall in love with her. But she was too tired, her body was heavy and warm. She closed her eyes, hoping she’d remember.

She won't remember… but she'll return to the same headspace soon, and will treat the new fantasy as an original. A new comfort for the new downspiraled moment.

she eroticized it so it stung less,

Vivian felt that this behavior was inappropriate for a familial interaction but knew she couldn’t say a sentence like “This behavior is inappropriate for a familial interaction” around here because she’d be shamed for taking things the wrong way, for having no sense of humor, for being antisocial and thinking you’re better than us with your white words and phrases;

“Wow. You are always measuring,” Cristina said.

Despite doing her best to broadcast “confident love of life,” Vivian felt off. The aggregated gloom of the past month was beginning to take its toll. That, or she was high.

“Hey, girl,” Paula/Pauline said, with the overly familiar inflection certain white women use when talking to Black women. “Great to meet you.” As if they hadn’t already met and as if Vivian hadn’t made a strong impression. “We’ve met before?” Vivian said. “I work at Wellhaven, we did that panel—” “Oh right! Of course, you do that super-important work. I remember you, duh,” Pauline said, profusely apologizing. Strike One, Vivian thought. They fake-hugged and Vivian felt Pauline’s bones.

So uncomfortable