Sometimes doing the right thing really, really sucks.

A restlessness haunts me, even when I have so many things to do my stomach is knotting knotting and twisting with dread that only feeds my procrastination.
I had the antidote before me—text and statistics and class notes—but some irresponsible inner force kept me from reaching for it.
No, out into the chilly evening, damp sidewalks, I went to shake the feelings out. My skin tingled in anticipation of raindrops, but none came. The shower had ended, leaving behind its shining signature smeared on the ground—making the concrete to sparkle in the lamplight.
I searched for new campus scenery, by the tack behind the library. The same old paths seemed used and jaded, stony-cold to my thin-soled shoes from all the walking I’d done on their granite faces.
Escaping their bitter solidity, I stepped out onto a new sidewalk, thinking I might be brave enough to take it tonight. I walked further than I had before, halfway down the side of the soccer field. A shed loomed in the darkness, creating a dark tunnel with the tarp-covered fence on the opposite side of the path. The shadows there shifted and moved; ominous warning, trust your primal fear. I stood frozen for a moment, too afraid of the black passage to turn my back on whatever lurked there.
I turned the volume down on Roy (my iPod) as I turned, throwing frequent glances over my shoulder. I pulled a headphone from my ear, listening for footsteps my logical mind knew I wouldn’t hear. But still I kept up an urgent pace until I was safe in the heart of the campus again, where golden light cast small, comfortable shadows.
The nervous fear had dispelled my earlier dread, like acid dissolving clumpy rubber.
I’ve read about how things like that work—how more illogical fear can help soothe legitimate stress. I’ve felt it other times too—like being exceptionally relaxed after watching a good horror flick. It’s hard to describe, though; how those adrenaline-fueled rushes of fear can make everything else seem more manageable after they’re over. The conceptual idea, the physical practice; ambiguous psychology pretending to be a science. Only vague descriptions for those who haven’t witnessed. They are inaccurate, word-pictures as confusing as Picasso’s work to some logical thinker. Indescribable.
There are some things—sounds and feelings, mostly—that words can’t describe. It’s often times the little things that no one’s really tried to give a clear word-picture of. At least, I don’t think so. But there have been so many writers and are and will be that are not me, and so I suppose my words are not unique. There is indeed nothing new under the sun.
But apples are one of the things I’ve never read about. The way, after you hook your teeth, pop the peel into the flesh, pull back--the crack-tear of the piece coming away from the rest; moist and tart with scandalous reminders in the pulp of what it was to be Eve.
Eve in her last moments of innocence. I wonder if she truly believed every word of the serpent—if she was absolutely certain the fruit would bring her good fortune? Or was she even a little scared? Maybe, as the perfect lips of the First Woman parted, her heart leapt into her stomach and she felt for the first time the biting grasp of fear...but it was too late—she had made her decision and now must follow through. And as her teeth sank into the seductive flesh she felt the first dull pang of dread—the first anguish of regret.
When did she realize the weight of what she’d done? Did she ever? Did she realize that, thousands of years later, her descendent daughters would resent her?
You cursed us with this pain, Mother. You cursed us with this loneliness. Adam stood by passively and watched, refused to rescue you, but it wasn’t only you he left to fall. You set the example for all of us; you passed down this addiction of choosing our own ruin.
Sometimes I think we have it worse even than Eve. At least she spent awhile basking in the pure glory of God; unfiltered, undiluted. At least she knew what it was that she would spend forever seeking. Though the memory of what she once had must have been painful, at least it may have held her true. Kept her from becoming lukewarm.
But, maybe ignorance is indeed bliss, and we daughters are blessed in the absence of this knowledge. No paradise torn from our horrified grasp; no being forced to our knees under the first crushing, puzzling weight of shame.
When we are born and experience things for the first time—cold, hunger, fear, loneliness, abandonment, shame, pain, loss—at least our awareness isn’t complete. We grow up with these feelings, never remembering a time without them, and when we realize what they are and why they are, at least we are somewhat used to them. Early conditioning; we are accustomed.
But for Eve it was all new. And she was fully aware—conscious of its legitimacy. Would the shock make it even worse? Would her soft, uncaloused soul be even more vulnerable to the rough claws of sin’s consequences? Or would her past bliss, like a balm, provide some soothing escape; take the edge off the sting?
Eve is nothing like her daughters. A distant mother to whom we can’t relate; resented for her closeness to God, blamed for the sin that cursed us all.
Are we supposed to love her? Is she a mother we must honor?
How could she possibly have disobeyed God? If she really did experience His ultimate love, untainted by the separation of sin, how could she possibly have wanted more? How could she have been tempted by anything? Was He so unfulfilling? It seems blasphemous even to consider such a thing, but if she had the fullness of what every believer is searching for, what every human soul longs for, why would she go looking for more?
I have to be honest, it makes me wonder. She had it all—all of Him and what else is there? And still she was not content. If Eve was so close to Him and still so easily made to feel dissatisfied, what chance do I have? What chance do I have of finding a place in me where obeying Him is truly more important than anything else, when innocent, untainted Eve herself was so quickly enamored with the black tongue of a snake?

Snakes are entrancing. I can see how Eve, upon seeing the chorded muscles undulating beneath smooth scales that sparkled in Eden’s sun like liquid silk, might have been hypnotized by its cloying beauty. Moving so alive, yet cold like death. A fluently twisting, elegant corpse: darkly captivating; luscious macabre. The hint of tantalizing sin would stand out especially lustrous amidst the righteousness of Eden, successfully luring the first naive girl’s soul to those sparkling stygian things that so easily steal precious innocence. Innocence that can never be reclaimed.
I have my own Eden—a make-believe Eden—in the woods behind my house, just past the pond and into the trees. No fruit grows there, except for the walnuts that feed this town’s red-furred squirrels and irritate its red-skinned farmers. But my dad only mows out here occasionally, so he doesn’t mind; he lets the squirrels keep sustenance within easy reach.
They—the squirrels—have gathered most of the walnuts up now, though; I noticed their absence while walking there today. And well they should—it is growing so cold so, so quickly, and the minute the wonderful pungent scent of fall flees my nostrils my heart aches with a thousand things I forgot to do in the summer sun.
I couldn’t stand the outdoors being snatched away from me so suddenly. That’s why I went walking in the woods today. That, and I was filled with a restless, impatient inspiration.
I knew what I wanted to do and my heart quickened with the thought of it. Something so small, blurring the line between innocence and sultry so thoroughly that I still am not sure whether my blushes were really called for. Probably not. I know I tend to be more shy than most. Regardless, they happened and the heat my body generated in the personal excitement caused my skin to dampen slightly as I gathered a robe and flashlights, a coat and my camera. I cast a glance over my shoulder at Caspian, a furry black lump on my bed. I’d leave him behind this time; I needed to focus.
My feet sunk slightly into the cold mud as I tried to envision myself doing what I had in mind. Such a small thing, an amateur thing. Laughable, even, I was sure. But why, as I set my camera on the concrete ledge of an old well, did I feel like Eve must have as she reached toward original temptation?
But it didn’t make any difference--no one would see this. This was mine. Secret art for me; pictures to make me feel beautiful as I am—real and imperfect—and using my real self to give this sequestered piece of art something beautifully flawed and immaculately scandalous.
I stopped when I reached the woods. Paused. I almost went back. The living room sounded nice; snuggled into the leather sofa with a dog and a book, hot tea on the table beside me. But I had to do this. So simple, so small, but to me it meant I was brave. To me it meant I was an artist in my heart, because no one would see these pictures. An artist for myself, not for an audience. It simply meant I could. I would. I could do things contrived of myself; I would do things that some others wouldn’t. I could suffer the cold—purposely put myself in discomfort and try to make it lovely. I don’t know why this humble project mattered so much to me. But it mattered and so I began.
I took off my shoes and socks, my feet immediately turning blotchy and purple thanks to my circulatory disorder. I stood on the concrete that spread about a foot from the base of the well, and its tiny peaks pressed into my bloodless soles; scratched my toes as I curled them against the chill autumn air.
For a second I studied the red nail polish, months-old remnants of a last tribute to the Golden Years. It looked sad and empty now, chipped and dull against the orange of the fallen leaves in spite of valiant attempts to maintain its bold, symbolic scarlet.
I hunched under the thick green robe I’d brought with me, fixing the auto settings on my camera as cold wind sliced through the gaps of my skin-warmed shelter.
I looked over my shoulder, back into the woods. Listened for sounds; approaching footsteps, voices. Nothing. Silence but for the tree branches above, tapping and scraping against one another like overcrowded children.
Tentative, I pressed the silver button on my camera and waited until the last possible minute to step away from the patches of ground that had been heated slightly by my presence.
Cold cold cold and I felt my skin tighten as goose bumps formed while I stepped in front of the camera. Shyly, I tried to make my body graceful and waited to hear my camera’s satisfying click.
Click. Second shot is coming. Shift my body; different angle. Be strong like the trees, hands in fists—no, too tight, too masculine. Too late. Click and I trot back to where my miss-matched socks lay in the grass, stuffing the tips of my icy toes into their tepid folds.
I squinted at the camera’s playback, mentally critiquing the pictures I’d taken. Looking at myself on that screen, appearing so foreign amidst the trees, I felt myself shrink with embarrassment. That surprised me. I thought I was brave. I thought I was liberal and spirited, artistic and uninhibited, capable of self-assurance in my ideas.
I was. I was or I would make myself. Right now. I would be, and be free and proud and brave in my being.
Push the button, kick away the comfort of socks and with my head high I mingle with the trees as the camera beep beep beeps and clicks. A few more seconds—I face the camera, bold and open in my stance.
With the second click, I knew I could and for a brief moment I felt empowered—like someone proud of the way they occupy space.
But my feet were numb, and my fingers had grown cold and sore under the nails. They fumbled clumsily as I changed clothes and gathered my things, tripping over my faltering feet.
After a walk in the cold that felt longer than it was, I stumbled back into the warm house, satisfied. I caught a glimpse of my eyes in the hall mirror and saw a smile playing there; a secretive smile, the knowledge of a simple but beautiful mystery that was mine.

I’m tired. Not just tired, but desperately exhausted. Don’t tell me to take a nap. It isn’t that easy. Sleep is a fickle friend of mine; won’t always do business with me. It’s a commodity I continually chase with spotty success, and there’s no end in sight to the insomnia.
I’m tired for more than just sleep, though more sleep would help tremendously. I don’t just need a good night’s rest, though. I need days of sleep; days and days swimming in the murky depths with no dreams to show their wide-eyed faces, begging me to follow. I can’t; not now. I want to, I really do, but I can’t.
I’ve been saying that a lot lately: ‘I can’t’. I can’t because I’m tired and I have to prioritize, but here is new and they don’t know me, so some of them are offended, I think. There are voices out my window—laughing voices and running footsteps and I want to add my own because I want to make it here; make a life here that is more than resting alone in my dorm. I know that, and I know it usually makes me sad, but tonight I’m too tired to care.
I’m so tired, my eyes are literally sinking deeper into my face. There are hollows by them that haven’t been there before; dips and crevasses I’ve only seen bordering the eyes of women much older than myself.
I’ve been losing lots of things lately, and forgetting things too. For awhile now I’ve felt older than my age, but lately even more so. It would be easier, I think, if I looked as old as I felt. Maybe thirty. Some days, more like sixty or eighty. Then people wouldn’t expect these things of me—these things when I just can’t do them. I’m sorry, I say, but I can’t, and they say alright but it isn’t really because their faces go all closed and flat when they turn to walk away.
I don’t want to explain myself anymore. I’m tired of these complications. A few relationships have even been ruined because I discovered non-understanding sides of people that never would have had anything to do with me if I wasn’t sick. But then those sides became colossal walls between us, proportionate to the amount of my life that is affected by my disease. Which is all of it.