Places I Am Not

The roadkill on the side of the highway is big and white. It’s larger than any other dead thing I’ve seen (on the side of a road).

I keep thinking of ways in which I’d like to get out of my own skin, but the problem is nothing really works. Forget skin–I’d like to get out of my own body. It comes close, when there’s loud dance music and other sensory overload and I guess the only time I’ve really come close to reaching it was a few years ago at a club in Boston that my friends and I make fun of despite it being an important developmental stop for all of us (you’re on the dance floor listening to a remix of Ke$ha and moving and there are so many other bodies around you that it’s impossible not to be touching anyone else but it’s okay, and suddenly God offers you His hand and you know that at least for that moment everything will be okay). But I keep trying. And trying.

The wind is so bad now that I can feel it moving my car, trying to push it. We’ve been spoiled with warm weather but to be honest even if we hadn’t been I still would be upset in the 13-degrees-and-lower-with-windchill weather.

I can’t stop.

(Or maybe it was a remix of “Telephone,” Gaga’s voice skipping and going back over “Stop calling” back and forth. It’s been so long that it’s hard to tell.)

It’s hard to keep thinking back and forth to where maybe you feel the most free you’ve felt in a while and to where you are while driving, especially when it’s hard to stay in your lane. There are so many things that could go wrong. The roadkill. Some part of me wishes I had stopped, but what could I do? Die, probably, myself, from either exposure or getting hit, or if the thing was just wounded and in so much pain that it would bite out at anything that tried to help it. Besides, I was going 80. We all make our own excuses.

For work, I have no problem calling strangers over the phone, but for anything else, I freeze. It, like a lot of the things on the growing list of what makes me anxious, is a development that’s come in the past four years. I can’t do it.

All I know is that I wish that I could just dance forever even though I know I’m not very good at it. I’ve made my peace with some of the things I do, but can’t I just have that? As long as I can have my relative anonymity under low lighting, and I don’t have to open my mouth at all, it doesn’t feel like I need to worry about getting anxious at all. I’ll leave my car and the roadkill and phone calls for the morning. I just want to have the night.


Author: jillboger

Part time writer. Editor-in-Chief for the Bridge volume 13, former EIC for The Odyssey at BSU. My glasses protect my secret identity.

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