Monthly Archives: October 2014

Tapped, Part Two – Trudy’s Diary


December 2, 2003

I know how to fix it.
I know how to fix it.
I know how to fix it.

It is possible, in fact, to be too compassionate. Compassion has crossed over into a sickness, a malady that requires a lot of wine and way too much down time from which to recover. This need to love the shit out of someone until they feel better is nothing short of madness. I know this now. I see it.

I know.

I do.

He did not come to me; rather, I saw an inkling of his discomfort, and I was drawn to him like an ant to yesterday’s coffee sugar, spilt and sticky. I hunger for a place to shelve this overwhelming feeling that bleeds from my heart to my head to my restless fingertips. No, it doesn’t matter who he is. It matters that the need exists. Tall, short, skinny, fat, angry, placid, funny, nerdy, handsome, smart, dumb as fuck, single, married. The only thing I see is a hole that can be filled with this gooey, sickly sweet, disgustingly overused compassion.

Today I saw his daughter. Blonde curls everywhere. I didn’t feel an ounce of compassion for her though, did I? Why not? She was singing as she pumped her thin little legs back and forth to swing higher and higher, leaning so far forward and then so far back that I thought surely she would lose her grip and fall hard and fast to the earth with a painful thunk. But she didn’t. She just kept going, and singing, and then she laughed and I thought to myself, yes. That’s the life I want. I want that.

Not this. Most certainly not this.



When Sarah was a little girl, she learned of her father’s infidelity. She didn’t know it had a name as formal as that, though. Infidelity. Such a short word to describe such a complex situation.

To Sarah, infidelity was called “Trixie.” At first she thought it was a funny joke. “Daddy is late coming home because of Trixie,” would say her mother. And her mother would laugh and laugh and laugh. Sarah would set the table for three, as always, and her daddy would come home late and shower and then meet them at the table for dinner just a couple of hours past when he was regularly scheduled, smelling so vibrantly clean. He was his kindest and sweetest and most silly and happy when was late, and so Sarah didn’t mind one bit. “Trixie” was something Sarah looked forward to, but how was she to know? How could six-year-old Sarah know that Trixie was really a woman named Trudy who would later be branded a home-wrecking whore by her mother and a second-wife by her sweet-smelling father?

Oh, life. Such surprises.



This is what she learned today:

Love is not a magical salve that heals a wound. It isn’t, and anyone who tells you it is? They’re a goddamn liar.

These little pockets of quiet were remarkably soothing yet dreadfully illuminating. She preferred life rushing by, to be honest, yet she craved the quiet and calm, and so it was this constant battle within her secretly self-described “dark and displeasingly deep” mind. I hate you, I love you. Slow down, speed up. Fuck me, get the fuck away from me. Frustration. Forever the frustration. The layers that could never peel down far enough to reveal the peace that she pretended was her finest quality.

But today, today the silence did not swallow her. It spoke to her.

Love is not the answer.

“But how can that be,” she questioned. She questioned it right out loud, asking herself, asking God, asking whomever was on the other side of the thin wall of her one room flat in the blindingly beautiful snowy city.

“How can that be?”

She was one to look for messages. A fortune cookie always held the key to life, until it was cracked and crumbling and the little piece of paper revealed a destiny clearly intended for someone else. She would open the New Testament and close her eyes as she placed her finger upon a verse that would surely light the way, but somehow the answer never quite fit the question. The Magic 8 Ball on her desk was clearly full of shit – or at the very least extremely and, of course, frustratingly evasive. “Reply hazy, ask again later.” Utter horseshit.

But today she sat in the quiet and watched the neighborhood dogs chase one another in the courtyard, and the snow stuck to her curly, unkempt hair until it was a wet, sloppy mess, and she heard it loud and clear for the first of many times that day: “Love is not the answer.” This message, this message she questioned, but in her heart she immediately and fiercely knew it was true.