Post by Abby Park on Oct 5, 2015 16:00:43 GMT -6
June, Week One
There’s silence. There’s always silence. But something about this place makes it all the more obvious, makes the ears more prone to picking up things that are not normally heard. It’s like taking the standardized tests and all you hear is the scratching of pencils and the hum of the clock reminding you that you’ve still got four hours to go and you’re stuck on the first math portion. The clock is ticking, its rhythm is off probably for some reason that made sense at the time – it doesn’t tick every second nor any discernible pattern, it just sometimes ticks and sometimes misses a tock. The computer is on, the faint hum of machinery calls to mind a surgical ward; but at least here there’s supposably calming artwork of sailboats and meadows on the wall rather than sterile white. The white noise makes the silence all the more unbearable yet it’s the only thing I’m able to focus on. I thought to distract myself by tapping my foot to a song in my head, but my ears choose to focus on how wrong the clock’s ticking was while my body struggled with the notion that it was cold in here despite being warm outside. Focusing was not high on the list at the moment.
“Miss Park? Miss Park?” Maybe that’s why I didn’t parse my name, that to my clock-focused ears it sounded like yet another thing that was…wrong. Or off. “ABBY!”
And I’m back. The irregular ticking clock is suddenly silenced, the computer may as well be shut down, and my eyes remember full well what they are looking at in relation to where I am. And where I am is in a room staring towards a woman who tried her best to mix formal and casual attire and decided on a blouse and trousers. It’s hard to say if she’s older or younger than me, either way there’s an odd brusqueness in the way she spoke. Brusque yet still effectively patient and, oddly, polite.
Her name is Alicia Austen and she came highly recommended.
“Hmm?” comes my reply, more an acknowledgement that I had heard her rather than an answer. “What happened?”
“Nothing. I asked you why you’re here and you…sat there. So, Miss Park. Why are you here?”
“Isn’t it your job to figure that out?”
“Miss Park, you’ve been seeing me for three months now and all you’ve done is sit and look at the wall. Therapy only works if the patient is willing to talk. I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me. So please, talk to me.”
“Why does it matter, you’re still getting my checks.”
“Miss Park, it’s not about the money. I value my job more than I value money.”
“Then why not see someone pro bono?” I think for a moment about snickering but I decide against it, after all this is technically a place for professional behavior. And I would hate feeling so…smug about an off handed remark. But then, feeling not myself is kind of why I started coming here to begin with, not that Doctor Austen knew that.
“Well, I do have kids I’d like to put through college one day,” the therapist is quick, quicker, still, with a grin. “Do you have kids, Miss Park?”
I can’t shake my head fast enough. I’d be a terrible mother, I’m sure of it. To say nothing of the lack of employment at present. “Well, are you married? Husband? …Wife?” I guess Alicia figured she may as well try to get something out of me finally by asking the simple questions.
“I’ve never been on a date.” So I give her something. It’s small but the materials and junk all suggest that good therapists can get something big from something miniscule.
“Really? And you’re how old?” I don’t answer; she checks her record of me and gets her answer anyway, “Do you go out much?”
“Not really. I go to a gym, not so much these days, or I’ll go to a corner store but that’s about it. One time I went to Las Vegas. I’ve been to Japan…Korea…”
“So you enjoy travelling?”
“Not really. Except for Korea I only travelled for work. When I was working.”
“Let’s stick to your social anxiety.”
“I don’t have social anxiety.” I said that with perhaps more aggression than was warranted, but Doctor Austen simply smiled, nodded, and apologized. I think she was humoring me, but I think that about several people I’ve known.
“Okay, okay. But do you have any friends? Non work related?”
“I have a brother. He…I had a brother.”
“Miss Park, you don’t go out often, you have no friends, you’ve never gone on a date…are you frightened? When you go out, to the gym, to the store, do you think you’ll embarrass yourself? That you’ll do something wrong or humiliating?”
“I don’t have social anxiety,” this time I meant it exactly as I said it: with my voice raised and annoyance by way of denial in my tone. “It’s just…” I close my eyes and I’m taken back to my formative years, my idyllic teenage days, when everything was fine except for my relationships with my family. “It’s just…there’s only ever been one man I’ve been…attracted to.”
“Oh?” I can hear the eyebrows raising, the pencil scribbling, the thought process of Doctor Austen happy to actually be working for her check this session. “Tell me about him. His name. When you two met.”
“It was never going to work out anyway. He was…Cole. His name was Cole. I think he knew. He had to have known. But he was in his twenties and I…I wasn’t even eighteen. But still… I thought…maybe…maybe he’d wait.”
“And did he?”
“He never got the chance. He…he died. He died because I was selfish.” Even recalling the incident was hard. I had thought I’d gotten over it, but whenever I thought about it it just made me feel awful. So I had learned simply not to think about it. I didn’t elaborate on the matter, saying only that he was a police officer and that I went on frequent ride alongs with him. I think Alicia could pick up how hard it was for me to talk about it, and though deep down she figured that would lead to a breakthrough, she thankfully changed the subject.
Somewhat.
“Have there been any other men in your life? Not family, but men you’ve formed intimate relationships with?”
“I told you I’ve never been on a date.”
“No, not that sort of intimate. Someone you’ve been close to, in a friendly way.”
“I worked with-”
“Outside of work, Abby.”
“…No.”
"Anyone? An intimate relationship with anyone?"
My answer is the same, delivered through the method of not saying anything.
“I see. Do you have any hobbies, Abby? Something that might occupy your time, something that makes you happy?”
I drop back into silence as I think about it; the clock returns but the computer doesn’t. It’s a fair question and that I’m thinking so hard about it is probably answer enough as far as Alicia is concerned. Maybe she was onto something, maybe I do have social anxiety…or maybe I’m just seeking an easy answer on why I’ve been so…lethargic since April.
“I…I’m fond of alcohol.”
“Alcohol isn’t a hobby, Abby.”
“It’s the only thing that I can think of. Well…I watch a lot of reality television. Real Housewives…The Bachelor…Love and Hip Hop…reality television.” I could’ve listed more but I was feeling sick just rattling off the ones I admitted to watching. Still, television wasn’t much of a hobby either, it’s probably just as destructive a vice as alcohol.
“What about…Cops? Do you watch Cops?”
“…No. No, I don’t watch Cops.” ‘
“I think we’re making progress at long last, Abby. Thank you for opening up. I think something that might help you, if you’re willing to try, is to go out someplace, maybe a mall or a park, somewhere with people…and just…mingle. Maybe introduce yourself, maybe talk with a clerk while they’re ringing you up, or strike up a conversation with someone that’s sitting by themselves on a bench or something.”
“That’s the worst.”
“Sorry?”
“Whenever I’m sitting by myself waiting for a bus or just waiting, whenever someone starts talking to me like that I hate it.”
“I see. Still, it’s up to you if you decide to take the chance. But I’m afraid that’s time for today. Shall I schedule you in for next week?”
My answer comes in the form of a quick nod. Oddly enough I didn’t hate spilling my guts like that, opening up. It’s oddly comforting talking to someone sworn to confidentiality.
“Okay. ‘We’ll go ahead and do that, Miss Park. Perhaps next week we’ll talk about your brother, I sensed some hesitation there.”
“That’s something you should get used to, Alicia.”
“I’m sorry?”
“With me. Hesitation.”
My time was up so any further elaboration would have to wait until next time. When I left the room I didn’t really feel any better, but I doubted I’d be so unwilling to talk next time around. The ice had been broken, for lack of a better term, and maybe, just maybe, Doctor Austen was the person I needed to kick me out of the rut I had dug myself into.
Lord knows everyone else has tried.
~
June, Week 4
CLANG! CLANG!
The bat vibrates with each successful cracking hit of a ball and had Abby not been wearing gloves it might’ve been just enough to cause her to drop the bat after sending a ball towards the outfield. The best part about her apartment situation wasn’t the rent or how close it was to the bus stop but rather how it was within walking distance of a baseball field. In season it often saw use from little league teams to office workers having an afternoon game but in the off season it was either abandoned or used by younger people engaging in a game of catch. Abby would often attend several games held there, despite having no stake in the teams; there was just something immediately enjoyable about baseball that spoke to Abby. It made sense. Three strikes and you’re out. Four balls and you get a base. Hitting the foul posts is a home run but if it bounces first it’s a ground rule double. Baseball was something Abby watched to get outside of her own head; when a game was played in front of her that was what she could focus on instead of her own problems.
The thought never crossed her mind in therapy to bring up baseball as a hobby. That would’ve been much more acceptable than admitting to being a lush that kept up with the Kardashians.
With no one else using the field, Abby stood at home plate, bucket of balls next to her, and started swinging. Tossing a ball up and swinging away, clang clang clang. Not quite as exciting as watching or even playing, but it was less expensive than a batting cage. How many days had she come out here? It almost seemed like the only constant thing in her life at present. Having no job, no leech, and enough put away to keep rent going for at least a year meant that Abby had fallen into the routine of doing nothing. A day could pass with the only movement from Abby being grabbing for the remote or turning over to take a nap.
She needed something, anything, to keep her from being so sedentary. She had a deal once and part of the deal meant she kept herself active. She had a leech once and that meant she had to work harder to support it. She had prospects and dreams once but they were only nightmares now. With the deal dried and the leech burned off, what reason did Abby have to fall back to her working routine? The only person she was disappointing now was herself.
And that’s the one person who won’t say anything.
Hitting baseballs for an hour became the only fairly normal, consistent thing in her life over the past handful of months. It was the only time that the back of her mind wasn’t constantly asking –
“Why’d you quit?”
WHIFF
Abby swung but the ball fell happily to the dirt; she whipped around to the voice behind her and nearly fell to the dirt herself. She almost didn’t recognize the voice; the owner was suddenly very unfamiliar being someone she had known far longer than she’d like to admit. And he was wearing something decent, for once, something that obviously cost more money than he’d made before.
“I didn’t-“
“Yes you did.”
“It’s more complicated than-“
“Is it? You know what they probably said about you, don’t you? The timing was oddly specific. What happened? Why did you quit?”
The question was ignored in order to swing at another lobbed ball; this one making contact and sailing to just next to first base.
“Oh, sure, ignore me. So what, we’re not talking anymore?”
“You know what you did.” Another whack of a ball, another light drop into the infield, another annoyed clicking of the roof of the mouth by Abby.
“What I DID? What I DID? Who was it that was always there for you? Who was it that you always dragged around on your adventures? Who was it-“
“Who was it that stole from me to buy drugs? Who was it that got arrested for possession and had to have me bail them out? Who was it that never did anything honest in their life?” There would be no more swinging of the bat today, the mood had been ruined and swinging a bat when angry was never a good idea in any capacity. Especially around others.
“You don’t get to be the bigger person in this, Abby. We both know I’m a fuck up. Thing is, only one of us knows that you’re no saint either, and the other refuses to admit that. You need to get your shit straight, Abs. Abeoji wouldn’t want to see you like this.”
The bat that Abby was clenching was released. It flew towards the back cage and hit it with a resounding clash of metal on metal. The cage itself shook while the bat clanged into the dirt.
“If you’re not going to answer me the least you can do is answer yourself. I know you, Abs. You were the most honest person I knew. Once you stop lying to yourself…give me a call.”
Abby didn’t respond with words. She instead fell to a crouch, head pointed down towards the dirt. The passive observer gave two taps to the fence before turning to leave.
“Oh, and Kim says hello.”
Whether or not Abby heard the send off, she brought her hands to her face and covered herself. Despite wanting to, nothing left her eyes. The only thing she felt at present was a lingering sense of doubt. Of failure.
And she understood that it was entirely her fault.
~
“I’m sure there are those still in the back that thought they’d never see me again, that I’d up and vanished without so much as a goodbye or a letter of resignation; I’m also sure that there are plenty who don’t even care, or who have already formed their own opinions about me, new or old, and that’s fine. I don’t much need to know the sentiment surrounding me; for as much as I did manage to accomplish when I was more…myself the sad truth of the matter is that I’ll be known more for my disappearing acts than anything else.”
“Truth be told I never thought I’d come back to any place; truth be told I still don’t know what caused me to turn and run, to shut myself in and to forget about…well…everything. Or that was the excuse I sold myself. If I kept denying and denying then that meant I could keep coming up with excuses, that I could avoid facing the reality of the situation. Of my situation. Of my feelings. But I suppose when the only thing you know how to do is throw an okay punch then you can’t exactly leave that behind. Sometimes…sometimes you have to do what you’re meant to do.”
“And like it or not, I’m meant to do this.”
A light comes up, shining brightly down on Abby Park. Her hair is longer, unkempt, her posture hardly exemplary, her casual attire torn and wrinkled, and were it not for her eyes she would look like a drifter, a mess; but it’s her eyes that betray her appearance – in her eyes is the expression of someone with a sense of purpose, of want.
“In the grand scheme of things it wasn’t that long ago that I vanished from hearts and minds but to me it might as well have been a decade. I’m coming down from the mountain a new woman; and for those of you keeping score go ahead and mark off your cards right under ‘heard that one before’. Some people like to make a grand return, a parade, long speeches, the whole shebang; but I never saw myself as worthy of any of that. It always struck me as odd that some nobody from rural-ass Tennessee-by-way-of-Korea could be, well, somebody. It struck me as even odder that that same nobody could and did add her name to the list of people that held the World Championship. The only thing that made sense was that same nobody dropping out of the public eye, to live like she thought she should: forgotten and out of the way.”
“Abby Park…I…was never a big deal, and because of that my ‘eisodos to Exodus shouldn’t be either. I never got into…this because I was seeking love, adoration, or validation; those were unexpected side effects of me constantly being tossed to the ground or shoved aside and simply refusing to stay there. Likewise, I finally refused to stay cuddled up on a couch with my phone off.”
“I’m mentioning all this not because I feel I owe people an explanation – I’m sure I do and I’m sure it won’t happen – but because Exodus has spared no expense at making sure that I’ll be up against someone that can at least relate to some part of the struggle that was my ultimate accomplishment. Isn’t that right, Savannah?”
“If I were in your shoes I’d probably be grinning from ear to ear. Yours is a tale heard often, the woman scorned not by mankind or something dramatic, but by the internal struggle of thinking that no matter what you do, who you overcome, what you accomplish that it might never be enough. I know your type, Savannah, you’re hungry – hungrier than most – and chomping to get your jaws around any piece of meat that will get you to where you so desperately want to be. You so firmly believe that the ticket to getting validation. Validation was the word you used, yes?”
“But now, now you’ve gone and done it. Rather than hold on tightly you’ve let go of something very dear to your heart and thus your shot at future validation goes with it. Seeing my name must’ve been like a light in the dark for you, Savannah. You, having just lost your precious, now get to show everyone that you may be down but you’re far from out; and what better way than to beat a former World Champion and one who, probably, isn’t even operating at peak capacity. Beat a former champ, move up the queue, I get it.”
“Well there are a couple of things wrong, Savannah, and the first is in your quest. Sure, everyone wants to be validated or respected in some capacity but it’s the people like you, the ones who think that chasing gold is the way to do it, that never see the approval they so desperately seek. Take it from me; I was only ever interested in doing the right thing as I saw it and while it often got me into more complications than anything else, by the end of it all I, unexpectedly and unknowingly, found myself validated by my peers. You’re making bold claims, bolder plays, and because you have a dream the ends always justify the means, right?”
“But let’s not focus on your ultimate end goal, let’s not bog things down with talk of archaic terms like validation and respect because it’s all worn territory at this point. You know, I can almost sympathize with you, Savannah, at some point I felt like you: slighted, underappreciated, nothing more than a reliable cog keeping a machine running alongside all the other cogs. And I was happy. Truly. Because I knew that I was only pretending, that if I didn’t maintain the façade, keep up the illusion, that someone would discover that I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. What I didn’t do was draw attention to myself. Sure, like you I wanted some reward for time and services but it was a constant internal battle of knowing that for all my wants that the only thing that came down to it was me. I struggled, because I never quite felt good enough compared to the people I saw as giants, the same people I had to stand against like I was David but my sling was broken.”
“When finally, after a string of bad luck and worse decisions, I accomplished what many only continue to strive towards…I still felt like I wasn’t good enough. Was I right? Wrong? Doesn’t matter. Point is, Savannah, that no one’s doubting your ability to make your dreams come true; and you can cry foul all you like but at the end of the day it’s no one’s fault but your own that in your mind the only thing you have to show for your time in Exodus is a failure to launch.”
“And that’s not something you can blame on anyone else.”
“Or maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m a simple woman when all is said and done. I don’t like thinking about things, I prefer hitting them. I like baseball, there’s more alcohol in my fridge than food, and the numbers in my phone are all family members. Simple. But out of that simplicity comes a thing of beauty, really. And that’s my passion for just…hitting things. It’s carried me longer than I ever thought possible and funny enough it’s carried me to the field of your dreams.”
“So it’s kind of perfect that my grand re-entrance, number what…three…four…whatever; is against someone I can relate to. We both know what it’s like to reach low points, you’re probably going through one right now after Welcome Oblivion. I’m not sure what my motivation is anymore. I could take the easy way out and say that, like you, I want to take the top spot – again, in my case – but I’m not so sure that that’s enough for me. I didn’t come back for some superficial reason as that.”
“So while you still cling to your dream and wrestle with the fact that the only thing holding you back is yourself…I’ll be coming into our match not with my eyes inward and focusing on the end goal. No. When I step back between the ropes, looking at a view that I still can’t describe the feeling it gives, I’m not doing it with the intent of reclaiming what I lost.”
“I’m doing it because I’m meant to do this. I’m doing this because if there’s anything Abby Park is good at doing…it’s hitting things and fighting well past the logical point of stopping. I’m doing this…because it’s the only time I can honestly say that I’m having fun. But most of all…I’m doing this because maybe, just maybe, I can knock a bit of sense into that bullhead of yours, Savannah.”
“Come what may…damn it feels good again.”
There’s silence. There’s always silence. But something about this place makes it all the more obvious, makes the ears more prone to picking up things that are not normally heard. It’s like taking the standardized tests and all you hear is the scratching of pencils and the hum of the clock reminding you that you’ve still got four hours to go and you’re stuck on the first math portion. The clock is ticking, its rhythm is off probably for some reason that made sense at the time – it doesn’t tick every second nor any discernible pattern, it just sometimes ticks and sometimes misses a tock. The computer is on, the faint hum of machinery calls to mind a surgical ward; but at least here there’s supposably calming artwork of sailboats and meadows on the wall rather than sterile white. The white noise makes the silence all the more unbearable yet it’s the only thing I’m able to focus on. I thought to distract myself by tapping my foot to a song in my head, but my ears choose to focus on how wrong the clock’s ticking was while my body struggled with the notion that it was cold in here despite being warm outside. Focusing was not high on the list at the moment.
“Miss Park? Miss Park?” Maybe that’s why I didn’t parse my name, that to my clock-focused ears it sounded like yet another thing that was…wrong. Or off. “ABBY!”
And I’m back. The irregular ticking clock is suddenly silenced, the computer may as well be shut down, and my eyes remember full well what they are looking at in relation to where I am. And where I am is in a room staring towards a woman who tried her best to mix formal and casual attire and decided on a blouse and trousers. It’s hard to say if she’s older or younger than me, either way there’s an odd brusqueness in the way she spoke. Brusque yet still effectively patient and, oddly, polite.
Her name is Alicia Austen and she came highly recommended.
“Hmm?” comes my reply, more an acknowledgement that I had heard her rather than an answer. “What happened?”
“Nothing. I asked you why you’re here and you…sat there. So, Miss Park. Why are you here?”
“Isn’t it your job to figure that out?”
“Miss Park, you’ve been seeing me for three months now and all you’ve done is sit and look at the wall. Therapy only works if the patient is willing to talk. I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me. So please, talk to me.”
“Why does it matter, you’re still getting my checks.”
“Miss Park, it’s not about the money. I value my job more than I value money.”
“Then why not see someone pro bono?” I think for a moment about snickering but I decide against it, after all this is technically a place for professional behavior. And I would hate feeling so…smug about an off handed remark. But then, feeling not myself is kind of why I started coming here to begin with, not that Doctor Austen knew that.
“Well, I do have kids I’d like to put through college one day,” the therapist is quick, quicker, still, with a grin. “Do you have kids, Miss Park?”
I can’t shake my head fast enough. I’d be a terrible mother, I’m sure of it. To say nothing of the lack of employment at present. “Well, are you married? Husband? …Wife?” I guess Alicia figured she may as well try to get something out of me finally by asking the simple questions.
“I’ve never been on a date.” So I give her something. It’s small but the materials and junk all suggest that good therapists can get something big from something miniscule.
“Really? And you’re how old?” I don’t answer; she checks her record of me and gets her answer anyway, “Do you go out much?”
“Not really. I go to a gym, not so much these days, or I’ll go to a corner store but that’s about it. One time I went to Las Vegas. I’ve been to Japan…Korea…”
“So you enjoy travelling?”
“Not really. Except for Korea I only travelled for work. When I was working.”
“Let’s stick to your social anxiety.”
“I don’t have social anxiety.” I said that with perhaps more aggression than was warranted, but Doctor Austen simply smiled, nodded, and apologized. I think she was humoring me, but I think that about several people I’ve known.
“Okay, okay. But do you have any friends? Non work related?”
“I have a brother. He…I had a brother.”
“Miss Park, you don’t go out often, you have no friends, you’ve never gone on a date…are you frightened? When you go out, to the gym, to the store, do you think you’ll embarrass yourself? That you’ll do something wrong or humiliating?”
“I don’t have social anxiety,” this time I meant it exactly as I said it: with my voice raised and annoyance by way of denial in my tone. “It’s just…” I close my eyes and I’m taken back to my formative years, my idyllic teenage days, when everything was fine except for my relationships with my family. “It’s just…there’s only ever been one man I’ve been…attracted to.”
“Oh?” I can hear the eyebrows raising, the pencil scribbling, the thought process of Doctor Austen happy to actually be working for her check this session. “Tell me about him. His name. When you two met.”
“It was never going to work out anyway. He was…Cole. His name was Cole. I think he knew. He had to have known. But he was in his twenties and I…I wasn’t even eighteen. But still… I thought…maybe…maybe he’d wait.”
“And did he?”
“He never got the chance. He…he died. He died because I was selfish.” Even recalling the incident was hard. I had thought I’d gotten over it, but whenever I thought about it it just made me feel awful. So I had learned simply not to think about it. I didn’t elaborate on the matter, saying only that he was a police officer and that I went on frequent ride alongs with him. I think Alicia could pick up how hard it was for me to talk about it, and though deep down she figured that would lead to a breakthrough, she thankfully changed the subject.
Somewhat.
“Have there been any other men in your life? Not family, but men you’ve formed intimate relationships with?”
“I told you I’ve never been on a date.”
“No, not that sort of intimate. Someone you’ve been close to, in a friendly way.”
“I worked with-”
“Outside of work, Abby.”
“…No.”
"Anyone? An intimate relationship with anyone?"
My answer is the same, delivered through the method of not saying anything.
“I see. Do you have any hobbies, Abby? Something that might occupy your time, something that makes you happy?”
I drop back into silence as I think about it; the clock returns but the computer doesn’t. It’s a fair question and that I’m thinking so hard about it is probably answer enough as far as Alicia is concerned. Maybe she was onto something, maybe I do have social anxiety…or maybe I’m just seeking an easy answer on why I’ve been so…lethargic since April.
“I…I’m fond of alcohol.”
“Alcohol isn’t a hobby, Abby.”
“It’s the only thing that I can think of. Well…I watch a lot of reality television. Real Housewives…The Bachelor…Love and Hip Hop…reality television.” I could’ve listed more but I was feeling sick just rattling off the ones I admitted to watching. Still, television wasn’t much of a hobby either, it’s probably just as destructive a vice as alcohol.
“What about…Cops? Do you watch Cops?”
“…No. No, I don’t watch Cops.” ‘
“I think we’re making progress at long last, Abby. Thank you for opening up. I think something that might help you, if you’re willing to try, is to go out someplace, maybe a mall or a park, somewhere with people…and just…mingle. Maybe introduce yourself, maybe talk with a clerk while they’re ringing you up, or strike up a conversation with someone that’s sitting by themselves on a bench or something.”
“That’s the worst.”
“Sorry?”
“Whenever I’m sitting by myself waiting for a bus or just waiting, whenever someone starts talking to me like that I hate it.”
“I see. Still, it’s up to you if you decide to take the chance. But I’m afraid that’s time for today. Shall I schedule you in for next week?”
My answer comes in the form of a quick nod. Oddly enough I didn’t hate spilling my guts like that, opening up. It’s oddly comforting talking to someone sworn to confidentiality.
“Okay. ‘We’ll go ahead and do that, Miss Park. Perhaps next week we’ll talk about your brother, I sensed some hesitation there.”
“That’s something you should get used to, Alicia.”
“I’m sorry?”
“With me. Hesitation.”
My time was up so any further elaboration would have to wait until next time. When I left the room I didn’t really feel any better, but I doubted I’d be so unwilling to talk next time around. The ice had been broken, for lack of a better term, and maybe, just maybe, Doctor Austen was the person I needed to kick me out of the rut I had dug myself into.
Lord knows everyone else has tried.
~
June, Week 4
CLANG! CLANG!
The bat vibrates with each successful cracking hit of a ball and had Abby not been wearing gloves it might’ve been just enough to cause her to drop the bat after sending a ball towards the outfield. The best part about her apartment situation wasn’t the rent or how close it was to the bus stop but rather how it was within walking distance of a baseball field. In season it often saw use from little league teams to office workers having an afternoon game but in the off season it was either abandoned or used by younger people engaging in a game of catch. Abby would often attend several games held there, despite having no stake in the teams; there was just something immediately enjoyable about baseball that spoke to Abby. It made sense. Three strikes and you’re out. Four balls and you get a base. Hitting the foul posts is a home run but if it bounces first it’s a ground rule double. Baseball was something Abby watched to get outside of her own head; when a game was played in front of her that was what she could focus on instead of her own problems.
The thought never crossed her mind in therapy to bring up baseball as a hobby. That would’ve been much more acceptable than admitting to being a lush that kept up with the Kardashians.
With no one else using the field, Abby stood at home plate, bucket of balls next to her, and started swinging. Tossing a ball up and swinging away, clang clang clang. Not quite as exciting as watching or even playing, but it was less expensive than a batting cage. How many days had she come out here? It almost seemed like the only constant thing in her life at present. Having no job, no leech, and enough put away to keep rent going for at least a year meant that Abby had fallen into the routine of doing nothing. A day could pass with the only movement from Abby being grabbing for the remote or turning over to take a nap.
She needed something, anything, to keep her from being so sedentary. She had a deal once and part of the deal meant she kept herself active. She had a leech once and that meant she had to work harder to support it. She had prospects and dreams once but they were only nightmares now. With the deal dried and the leech burned off, what reason did Abby have to fall back to her working routine? The only person she was disappointing now was herself.
And that’s the one person who won’t say anything.
Hitting baseballs for an hour became the only fairly normal, consistent thing in her life over the past handful of months. It was the only time that the back of her mind wasn’t constantly asking –
“Why’d you quit?”
WHIFF
Abby swung but the ball fell happily to the dirt; she whipped around to the voice behind her and nearly fell to the dirt herself. She almost didn’t recognize the voice; the owner was suddenly very unfamiliar being someone she had known far longer than she’d like to admit. And he was wearing something decent, for once, something that obviously cost more money than he’d made before.
“I didn’t-“
“Yes you did.”
“It’s more complicated than-“
“Is it? You know what they probably said about you, don’t you? The timing was oddly specific. What happened? Why did you quit?”
The question was ignored in order to swing at another lobbed ball; this one making contact and sailing to just next to first base.
“Oh, sure, ignore me. So what, we’re not talking anymore?”
“You know what you did.” Another whack of a ball, another light drop into the infield, another annoyed clicking of the roof of the mouth by Abby.
“What I DID? What I DID? Who was it that was always there for you? Who was it that you always dragged around on your adventures? Who was it-“
“Who was it that stole from me to buy drugs? Who was it that got arrested for possession and had to have me bail them out? Who was it that never did anything honest in their life?” There would be no more swinging of the bat today, the mood had been ruined and swinging a bat when angry was never a good idea in any capacity. Especially around others.
“You don’t get to be the bigger person in this, Abby. We both know I’m a fuck up. Thing is, only one of us knows that you’re no saint either, and the other refuses to admit that. You need to get your shit straight, Abs. Abeoji wouldn’t want to see you like this.”
The bat that Abby was clenching was released. It flew towards the back cage and hit it with a resounding clash of metal on metal. The cage itself shook while the bat clanged into the dirt.
“If you’re not going to answer me the least you can do is answer yourself. I know you, Abs. You were the most honest person I knew. Once you stop lying to yourself…give me a call.”
Abby didn’t respond with words. She instead fell to a crouch, head pointed down towards the dirt. The passive observer gave two taps to the fence before turning to leave.
“Oh, and Kim says hello.”
Whether or not Abby heard the send off, she brought her hands to her face and covered herself. Despite wanting to, nothing left her eyes. The only thing she felt at present was a lingering sense of doubt. Of failure.
And she understood that it was entirely her fault.
~
“I’m sure there are those still in the back that thought they’d never see me again, that I’d up and vanished without so much as a goodbye or a letter of resignation; I’m also sure that there are plenty who don’t even care, or who have already formed their own opinions about me, new or old, and that’s fine. I don’t much need to know the sentiment surrounding me; for as much as I did manage to accomplish when I was more…myself the sad truth of the matter is that I’ll be known more for my disappearing acts than anything else.”
“Truth be told I never thought I’d come back to any place; truth be told I still don’t know what caused me to turn and run, to shut myself in and to forget about…well…everything. Or that was the excuse I sold myself. If I kept denying and denying then that meant I could keep coming up with excuses, that I could avoid facing the reality of the situation. Of my situation. Of my feelings. But I suppose when the only thing you know how to do is throw an okay punch then you can’t exactly leave that behind. Sometimes…sometimes you have to do what you’re meant to do.”
“And like it or not, I’m meant to do this.”
A light comes up, shining brightly down on Abby Park. Her hair is longer, unkempt, her posture hardly exemplary, her casual attire torn and wrinkled, and were it not for her eyes she would look like a drifter, a mess; but it’s her eyes that betray her appearance – in her eyes is the expression of someone with a sense of purpose, of want.
“In the grand scheme of things it wasn’t that long ago that I vanished from hearts and minds but to me it might as well have been a decade. I’m coming down from the mountain a new woman; and for those of you keeping score go ahead and mark off your cards right under ‘heard that one before’. Some people like to make a grand return, a parade, long speeches, the whole shebang; but I never saw myself as worthy of any of that. It always struck me as odd that some nobody from rural-ass Tennessee-by-way-of-Korea could be, well, somebody. It struck me as even odder that that same nobody could and did add her name to the list of people that held the World Championship. The only thing that made sense was that same nobody dropping out of the public eye, to live like she thought she should: forgotten and out of the way.”
“Abby Park…I…was never a big deal, and because of that my ‘eisodos to Exodus shouldn’t be either. I never got into…this because I was seeking love, adoration, or validation; those were unexpected side effects of me constantly being tossed to the ground or shoved aside and simply refusing to stay there. Likewise, I finally refused to stay cuddled up on a couch with my phone off.”
“I’m mentioning all this not because I feel I owe people an explanation – I’m sure I do and I’m sure it won’t happen – but because Exodus has spared no expense at making sure that I’ll be up against someone that can at least relate to some part of the struggle that was my ultimate accomplishment. Isn’t that right, Savannah?”
“If I were in your shoes I’d probably be grinning from ear to ear. Yours is a tale heard often, the woman scorned not by mankind or something dramatic, but by the internal struggle of thinking that no matter what you do, who you overcome, what you accomplish that it might never be enough. I know your type, Savannah, you’re hungry – hungrier than most – and chomping to get your jaws around any piece of meat that will get you to where you so desperately want to be. You so firmly believe that the ticket to getting validation. Validation was the word you used, yes?”
“But now, now you’ve gone and done it. Rather than hold on tightly you’ve let go of something very dear to your heart and thus your shot at future validation goes with it. Seeing my name must’ve been like a light in the dark for you, Savannah. You, having just lost your precious, now get to show everyone that you may be down but you’re far from out; and what better way than to beat a former World Champion and one who, probably, isn’t even operating at peak capacity. Beat a former champ, move up the queue, I get it.”
“Well there are a couple of things wrong, Savannah, and the first is in your quest. Sure, everyone wants to be validated or respected in some capacity but it’s the people like you, the ones who think that chasing gold is the way to do it, that never see the approval they so desperately seek. Take it from me; I was only ever interested in doing the right thing as I saw it and while it often got me into more complications than anything else, by the end of it all I, unexpectedly and unknowingly, found myself validated by my peers. You’re making bold claims, bolder plays, and because you have a dream the ends always justify the means, right?”
“But let’s not focus on your ultimate end goal, let’s not bog things down with talk of archaic terms like validation and respect because it’s all worn territory at this point. You know, I can almost sympathize with you, Savannah, at some point I felt like you: slighted, underappreciated, nothing more than a reliable cog keeping a machine running alongside all the other cogs. And I was happy. Truly. Because I knew that I was only pretending, that if I didn’t maintain the façade, keep up the illusion, that someone would discover that I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. What I didn’t do was draw attention to myself. Sure, like you I wanted some reward for time and services but it was a constant internal battle of knowing that for all my wants that the only thing that came down to it was me. I struggled, because I never quite felt good enough compared to the people I saw as giants, the same people I had to stand against like I was David but my sling was broken.”
“When finally, after a string of bad luck and worse decisions, I accomplished what many only continue to strive towards…I still felt like I wasn’t good enough. Was I right? Wrong? Doesn’t matter. Point is, Savannah, that no one’s doubting your ability to make your dreams come true; and you can cry foul all you like but at the end of the day it’s no one’s fault but your own that in your mind the only thing you have to show for your time in Exodus is a failure to launch.”
“And that’s not something you can blame on anyone else.”
“Or maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m a simple woman when all is said and done. I don’t like thinking about things, I prefer hitting them. I like baseball, there’s more alcohol in my fridge than food, and the numbers in my phone are all family members. Simple. But out of that simplicity comes a thing of beauty, really. And that’s my passion for just…hitting things. It’s carried me longer than I ever thought possible and funny enough it’s carried me to the field of your dreams.”
“So it’s kind of perfect that my grand re-entrance, number what…three…four…whatever; is against someone I can relate to. We both know what it’s like to reach low points, you’re probably going through one right now after Welcome Oblivion. I’m not sure what my motivation is anymore. I could take the easy way out and say that, like you, I want to take the top spot – again, in my case – but I’m not so sure that that’s enough for me. I didn’t come back for some superficial reason as that.”
“So while you still cling to your dream and wrestle with the fact that the only thing holding you back is yourself…I’ll be coming into our match not with my eyes inward and focusing on the end goal. No. When I step back between the ropes, looking at a view that I still can’t describe the feeling it gives, I’m not doing it with the intent of reclaiming what I lost.”
“I’m doing it because I’m meant to do this. I’m doing this because if there’s anything Abby Park is good at doing…it’s hitting things and fighting well past the logical point of stopping. I’m doing this…because it’s the only time I can honestly say that I’m having fun. But most of all…I’m doing this because maybe, just maybe, I can knock a bit of sense into that bullhead of yours, Savannah.”
“Come what may…damn it feels good again.”
