Cassandra in Reverse

by Holly Smale

When things go well, a shadow overturns it all. When badly, a damp sponge wipes away the picture. Aeschylus

But life isn’t like that, so books are dishonest. Maybe that’s why humans like them.

The blue café doorbell tinkles behind me and it makes me briefly think of It’s a Wonderful Life, which is a beautiful film about a much-loved man who has a positive impact on the world around him and which I, therefore, find difficult to relate to.

A sheet of pure sound passes through me and I start to pull apart on a cellular level, the way a glass shakes just before it shatters.

At some point in my past something went wrong, so if there’s even a chance I can do it all over again—throw out this life like a first pancake and make another, better one—I have to at least try, don’t I?

According to Sophocles, “time calls only once, and that determines all.” But what if it doesn’t? What if time calls again and again? What if it doesn’t get the message, doesn’t give up, doesn’t let go? What if it’s calling me from the point where it all went wrong, pulling me back there to do it again?

Because if the first page of a book is a lie and all we have are lines drawn in the sand, then that makes tim...

“So I’ve been thinking over what you said about sharing and opening up, and you’re right. I don’t. I find it incredibly hard. Painful. And when I do open up, I share way too much because I’m not sure where the line is. You know, that socially appropriate line between good share and bad share. I can’t see it. There’s all this truth, gallons and gallons of it, but how much do people want? Fifty percent truth? Ninety percent? Just a trickle? None at all? Nobody ever clarifies, so I’m constantly getting it wrong.”

“And then I share too much or not enough, and people get angry, or irritated, or uncomfortable, or bored, or hurt. It’s confusing, and it makes me very anxious. But you asked me to share and open up, so here goes.”

I don’t think we talk enough, as a species, about how ridiculously difficult it is to make basic conversation. People act like it should be fun, but it isn’t. It’s like playing tennis, and you have to stay permanently perched on the balls of your feet just to work out where the ball is coming from and where it’s supposed to go next. Is it their turn? My turn? Will I get there fast enough? Have I missed my shot? Did I just interrupt theirs? Am I hogging the ball? Is this a gentle back-and-forth rally, just to waste time, or would they prefer one of us to just smack it into the corner?

For possibly the first time in three decades, I’m not weighed down by trying to read someone’s colors and their facial expression and their body language and their tone and their words and also look out for jokes and sarcasm and flirting and secret insults and what is implied and what is left unspoken and somehow simultaneously filter out the chatter around me and the milk frother and the sensation of the chair under my bum and the movement of my fingers and position of my own feet and the breeze on my face and the sound of the doorbell ringing and the sound of my own heart and breath and the muscles in my own face. For just a few seconds of my life I get to just be present, and it is joyful.

Love is a courageous thing to pursue, and to me Eos represents hope, and resilience, and light in the darkest hour. She represents the strength to keep trying, even when you know you’re doomed. She represents new beginnings and refusing to accept defeat. She also represents the ability to change your husband into a cicada when he gets very old and kind of annoying.

It’s funny how living in a house with other people in it feels infinitely lonelier than living completely alone.

it suddenly hits me that I’m allowing my life to fall back into exactly the same shape it was the first time round: gravitating toward familiarity and repetition, the way I always do. Encouraging the sameness, because even when it’s awful, I still like it more than change. Slipping back into time as if it’s an old pair of comfy slippers I refuse to throw away, even though they’re not even that comfortable anymore and my toes are sticking out and getting cold.

my face doesn’t really move much, no matter how I feel. Happiness and sadness and anger and period pain all look much the same

Scanning as fast as I can, I attempt to assess every potential spot. One table is too close to the front door (disruptive), another too close to the toilet (smelly); one is far too near a group of loud, braying men in suits (noisy, smelly, disruptive and also really irritating). One table faces the window (bright) and I take strongly against one because of the shape of the chairs (Gothic, prone to collecting dirt). I frown. Everything is a little bit...scabby. Sticky.

Brunch is a particularly dangerous meal for me: one wrong move, and the morning is totally ruined.

In ancient Greek theater, the actors all wore thick masks that served a number of purposes. They had different identities, which allowed the actors to switch roles and genders easily, and exaggerated expressions that allowed the audience to clearly see what emotion they were portraying from a distance. The masks also served the incredibly clever purpose of projecting the actor’s voice into the auditorium, thus allowing them to be heard by everyone. Most of the time, it feels like I’m wearing a mask too.

So much mess. So much dirt. So much inaudible noise.

My horror of dirt and mess and dogs and lateness is a me problem. I see no reason why other people should have to live according to my personal eccentricities, and I’m certainly not going to judge Will because he doesn’t. Frankly, I’m way too busy judging myself. Not everyone spends their spare time arranging their ornaments into nice straight lines and wiping down the woodwork.

everything hurts all the time: light, sound, smell, temperature, the texture of my own clothes on my skin. I cower in dark corners when everyone else is in meetings. I stop being able to use public transport. I stop being able to eat or sleep. Eventually, I stop being able to speak at all. By the weekend, I am so sick I have to spend it in bed,