I have just returned from one of the most fatiguing days of my life. I am much more exhausted then when I just drag myself up my dark mahogany stairs and collapse in my bed. When I am feeling truly drained and beaten I write.

The memory of today has turned into a blur that subconsciously I'm trying very hard to forget. My legs and arms are throbbing, and my eyes are stinging like mad, but it's this monotonous numb pouring throughout my mind that hurts the most. After giving everything to stay aloft, it feels like a time that I'd give all that I have to sink.

My day started early. My mother woke me at 7:30 to eat breakfast, which was proceeded by a shopping trip my mother and I took until I had to work at 11:30. I had a splendid time, really. We discovered this heart-stopping smoky gray gown that was marked down from $335 to $89. We decided to meet in the Library at 4:30 to go retrieve it after I cashed my check.

Work was terrible today. It was busy when we opened, when we closed, during every dragging moment in between. Every customer I sat was displeased, no one was satisfied. I couldn't get off until 4:00, sprinting to the library so that I wouldn't miss mom. Fifteen minutes later I hurried into the edifice, climbing the concrete stairs to the pre-arranged meeting place. I grabbed a Harper's Bizarre mag, and rested in the same spot that I had met Elisse the week before. It was pleasant, sprawled out on the orange pleather, nonchalantly flipping through pages and pages of high fashion. Of course, right when I stumbled upon an interesting article about John Galliano, Jeff hurried up to me, looking slightly shaken.

Apparently my mother had decided to go psychotic today, shouting in front of everybody that she wanted a divorce and that Jeff was a thief. She was freaking out, searching for me in the library, although we had agreed to meet at 4:30. She had run away from Jeff, searching madly for me throughout the city.

Whatever. I've learned not to question episodes such as these. My mother simply can't be controlled at this moment; she'll plow through anyone or anything, searching for a shard of peace that isn't to be found. When she loses control, she searches unscrupulously and frantically until it finds her again. She just needs time, and that's what I give her. I wanted that dress, and it was only on hold until 5:00. I forced Jeff to take me to the bank instead of looking for my mom. He wouldn't have prevailed; if the woman doesn't want to be found, she won't be found. If she wants to be found, neither you nor any mortal has the power to avoid her.

So we rushed to Nordstrom's, only to see that they accidentally put it back on the floor, even though it wasn't 5 yet. I ask you: why is competency nowhere to be found in the work field? Why? The dress is gone; we searched the racks, the other racks, interrogated the half-wit responsible thrice. It was gone.

Whatever. I'm pissed already, and this incident fits perfectly into my day. People don't care, people don't see, people just don't know. The dress was one of a kind, but I have to get back to work.

So we pull into the OSF parking lot to see my mother emerging from the building, in a rage. This is when I almost went ballistic. Twice before has my mother screamed at my manager for nothing, getting me an official warning. Why does she do this? I worked hard for this menial job and I'm working very hard to keep it. I started to cry, knowing my mother had just made trouble for me at work. She runs up to me, screaming at me for "picking Jeff over her", for "running away from her when she left skiing early to find me at the library", and for "abusing her and treating her with disrespect". My mother and I, mind you, were on good terms up until this point; we were both ecstatic about the dress and were happy to go get it. She continues to rage on in this fashion for another minute or so, until I start to scream back at her through the salty tears that have covered my face. Why does she have to be this way? Why can't she restrain herself ever? Why must it always be my fault? It's so frustrating...

We're sitting in the back of a blazer, shaking with rage, screaming the sharpest, most dangerous words at each other. Faces red with hatred, faces wet with tears, eyes swollen already. Finally she stopped, slammed the door open, and ran down 6th east.

I was tired; I wanted to run. I wanted to run in the opposite direction as fast and as furiously and as desperately as my mother. I yearned to leave the parking lot, to run until finally my body gave up the ghost and I collapsed beside a dusty road. I wanted to feel the last pang of breath slowly exit my body, and to feel my limbs and head go limp, falling to the earth below. I wanted to bite down on my lip until it bled, to see blood flow forth just as the life slowly seeped out of my being, taking me onward.

But I couldn't, and I knew this. I was in flowing tears when I entered the mall, I was composed and smiling by the time I climbed the last step of the stairway leading directly to the OSF. My wish was partly granted: I could feel my being and will giving up the ghost, I could feel the life slowly seeping out of me. Every time I smiled or laughed I could sense my mind going limp, while my drive pushed on to maintain the face, to maintain the air of a care-free young woman. I laughed stupidly with the other hosts and customers, my body collapsing beside the road, panting and sucking air madly into my beaten lungs. I skipped up the staircases, I filled up my sections, I amused the managers, I was not taken onward.

It becomes easy to hide so openly. It's almost intuitive, killing the urge to lash out, placing a drive to please in its place. Once such an act is accepted, the rest of my being follows, obedient and silent. Just once did a tear fall to the floor, while I was taking a bathroom break. To the rest of the world I was happy, I was spoiled, I was protected. To the rest of the world I new nothing but contentment, nothing but fed ignorance and naivety. To them I was perfect.

I came home without eating. At times there's nothing quite like physical emptiness to complete and to fill the emotional voids created by desolation. I collapsed on my bed to find I was laying on the dress, a shimmering curtain shielding the viewer from the lack of control and cruelty felt by every member in the house. I threw it to the floor, rushed to my computer, and began to write.