This is an essay about apologies.
I say “sorry” more than I used to. It’s like a hiccup that introduces my sentences now.
WebMD says I might be dying or taking up more space than I used to.
I haven’t decided whether it’s time to draft my will or accept the fact that people listen to what I have to say. I form full sentences and they listen. I talk about my feelings and they try to understand. They ask me how I am and I respond and they wait to hear the answer.
I’m sorry. I hope I’m not talking about myself too much. Let me tell you about someone else.
There was a girl in my acting class in college who had chronic hiccups except for when she was on stage and performing. She had hope, I am a lost cause. I could hold my breath and count to 10 but once I open my mouth again and people listen, all the unsaid “sorry”s will resurface. And then god, the “don’t-be-sorry” brigade will show up and I’ll feel much worse. It was much easier when I —
Fuck. Sorry. Give me a second.
Okay, I’m back. The letter “I” keeps falling off my keyboard. Literally I was writing this and the flimsy plastic slipped through my fingers and went missing in my bed. I should have it fixed, I know, but there is a pandemic, and I’m a hypochondriac and I’m lazy when it comes to shipping returns and doing the right thing for my computer. My favorite lie is just three words: “Remind me tomorrow.”
A friend once told me to pay attention to how I start all my sentences with “I.” It’s never “you,” he said. It’s always “I.” That says something about you. Try to think of others whenever you start a sentence with “I.”
I remember that day. I had just seen a 50-pound stage light fall on a guy from 20 feet. For a second I was sure he had died. He didn’t. Thank god. I left the theater and walked back home shaking. It’s not about you, my friend said: And yet, for you, it’s always “I.”
It must have been my selfishness that tore the letter “I” off its socket. Guilty as charged.
It’s funny how we carry some moments forever. It’s like when you start paying attention to your breathing that you forget to breathe. It’s only when you forget about it that you can breathe easy. Once in a while I catch myself starting a sentence with “I.” I try to move my words around just so that “I” is not the first. I’d take any word except for “I.” The game of word salad tires me and the guilt makes it harder to speak. I shut up.
This could be a slow death, maybe, but most of the time I don’t even give a damn and I am free. That seems more like life to me. You need some proof?This piece has 11 sentences that start with the word “I” (there’s one more below) and I don’t feel like shit about it. See, I’m over it. If I continue on this trajectory, maybe I’ll even stop saying “sorry” before I should really be sorry for something I did like staring into the apartment of a couple across the street from me.
I can’t pretend, though. It is always a pleasant surprise when I look into an apartment and I find love instead of a fancy chandelier.
