autonomy. By kaitlyn kelley
I sit on a swing. My feet dangle over the gravel, so I take off my shoes, exposing my red toenail polish to the world. It’s roughly 80 degrees Fahrenheit outside with no beaming sun and no clouds. There’s a careful breeze that cools the sweat from my three minute walk to the swings behind the honors college. The swings surround a growing tree dedicated to an educator I know nothing about. Half of my makeup is left on the pillowcase in my dorm room. I’m flipping through my script that is littered with lavender highlights and black paper clips. Although I’m trying to pay attention and step into my role, my mind is wandering. I’m biting my nails, people-watching, and listening to the deep repetitive groan of the swing I rest upon.
was doing that night. After Macy finishes her mile and decides it is time to leave, I stick around to make a depressing phone call. I sit on a cold, gray metal bench. My skin is sticky. I become one with the metal, becoming stuck to my fate. After some beating around the bush, I tell him that we cannot be together anymore.
He never thought I was smart. He always talked down to me. I was less-than to him, less than perfect, less than human. To him I was disgusting, embarrassing, selfish, and gross. He called me a slut, a bitch, a cunt, and a whore. Watch what you wear. Who do you talk to? Are you around other men? Don’t be out too late. Have your location on. Take a joke.
I thought so too. I had no idea he was capable of making me feel the way that I felt. So, as tears and sweat spill down my face, I hang up the phone one final time. Then I stop crying. His insecurities had wrangled me and confined me. Why would someone take away my autonomy? To call that love?
I recognize some people I used to go to church with. Being an hour and forty-five minute drive from home, I was a little taken aback. They ask me how I’m doing with gleaming faces. “New Hope Church” is written across both of their chests. I can finally answer that question honestly. They pass along the swings, and I’m alone again. I had originally come out here to find something in my past to write about. Instead, I found that I need to write about the “now.” What is happening to me right now in this season. Because now, I have the freedom to write, to choose, to express, to think, and to live. Walking on the treadmill isn’t easy when you know you’re about to break up with your boyfriend of the past year. You don’t know whether you need to run and push yourself harder or if you should just let the belt suck you up inside. Anyway, that’s what I 146
“This is a mistake, you’re making a mistake.” This isn’t even my choice; this choice felt like it was held above me by another force. “No, this is your choice. You said we would never break up. We were supposed to get married.”
I’m seated in a classroom. The fluorescent lights overhead seem to drill through my skull to the center of my brain. Around me, some are typing on their laptops, and I can hear the faint clicking of their keys. Others are writing on paper, and I can hear the roar of ballpoint pens whirring and zipping across notebooks. I stare at my outline. I wouldn’t even call it an outline, I basically threw up on the paper. My contacts cling to my eyeballs, making their presence known every time I blink. My classmates start to stand up around me. I notice how everyone wears purple today. The sky turns purple as time passes. My world is soon lit by street lamps and flood lights. I give up on trying to read my script. I begin to think about how I can finally be here. Here in the moment, without consequences. Without being accused of lying about if someone else was swinging alongside me. I bend over to get his shoes out of my car. He had
