![]() The tears in my eyes were almost pleasurable. There she was, my aunt, suddenly at the other end of the garden, waving from a distance. My aunt would scold me for this, applying repellant to me as if it were sun lotion, her hands more vigorous than they needed to be as she rubbed it into my skin. ![]() Sometimes I would allow a horsefly to suckle tenderly from my forearm. Sometimes a ladybird would land on my softly-furred bare thigh, and I would watch it move slowly about. I surveyed the vista of that pain with curiosity, as if it were the surface of another planet, before returning into my body with a sick thump. And the irony of this small thought gave me enough comfort to lift myself above my pain for a second, even two, at a time. ![]() Nervous breakdown music meant the Beach Boys, basically, so I sat there staring into space listening to ‘Good Vibrations’ on my headphones on full volume, thinking: the vibrations are bad. The details – murder, robbery – didn’t matter, so long as whatever it was would be rampageous and remorseless both. Nervous breakdown music meant anything obnoxiously cheerful that I could picture soundtracking me in a montage where I was committing a crime spree. I spent a lot of time the summer I divorced sitting in what my family called the nervous breakdown chair, listening to what I personally called nervous breakdown music. ![]()
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