The Endurance Test — Meghan Haydon
essay ☆
essay ☆
Stair Falling (Kira O’Reilly, 2010). She tumbled down a curved flight of stone steps, fully nude. It was an attempt to control the body when falling, to slow down the movements and give grace to the clumsiness. It was an expression of vulnerability, of controlled pain, of self-inflicted suffering. It was an attempt to reclaim power over a situation in which one is utterly powerless.
It wasn’t controlled, the way I fell, but I was the one who set it in motion. I was the one who stripped down and offered myself up for the immolation. But with each crack against the cold marble, I found myself longing for the control I had so eagerly yielded.
Rhythm 0 (Marina Ambromović, 1974). Seventy-two objects were laid out upon a table, ranging from a feather to a loaded gun. For six hours, the audience was permitted to do anything that they wanted to her, anything at all. It was a test of the public, to see whether they would choose compassion or malice in the face of acquiescence. It was a test of the self, to see how much stress her body and mind could take when lacking control. She was poked, prodded, cut and stripped, carried around and posed like a mannequin. She was violated again and again and again. They treated her like an object, forgetting completely that she was a person, or perhaps they just simply didn’t care.
The way he didn’t care when I told him I didn’t feel like a person anymore, just some flimsy, incorporeal misconception. Like when the real me didn’t align with the idea of me–the fantasy of me–he had conjured up in his head, and I couldn’t help but feel as though I had disappointed him somehow. Again. Because my hair is not the right color, because I don’t like his shitty music, because I don’t possess the right outlook on life, because I don’t think I’d really like being used the way he wants to use me. Because I want him to love me.
But I was willing to change all these things, of course, because I wanted him to love me. So I pushed needles through cartilage and started rimming my eyes in black. But maybe if I did more. Maybe if I dyed my hair that shade of red, cut those bangs, lost a few pounds, made my skirts a little shorter, picked up a few more bad habits. Maybe then.
But would he still think I’m beautiful when my hair is slick with grease? when I forget to suck in my stomach? when my face is bare? when I’m no longer nineteen?
Cut Piece (Yoko Ono, 1964). She sat upon a stage, dressed in her best clothes. Audience members were selected at random, produced a pair of scissors, and invited to cut pieces of her clothing right off her body until, piece by piece, she was stripped completely naked. She made no objection, suspended in a state of dissociation.
It’s a bit like how I let him pull me apart, piece by piece, watching as he devoured each gamy morsel. He savored every bite, even the rotten bits, steeped in ink and gin. I think he tasted a bit of himself in those necrotic flanks; bitter, sour, gristled and raw. And every layer he peeled away, I clung to him tighter for warmth. I couldn’t hide anything from him, even if I wanted to. It was all right there, written in the marrow of my being. I never minded much, though. I was perfectly content to give him everything he wanted, so long as I was desired. I always did conflate attention and affection, lust and love.
When did it become such a vice to love, anyway? He can tell me that I’m his, that I’m beautiful and that he cares about me. He can view every inch of my body, touch every inch of my body, feel me from the inside out, strip me down–body, mind, heart, soul–but god forbid I fall in love with him. He can make me feel beautiful even when I feel wretched, understood even when I feel entirely alone, heard even when I have nothing to say, seen even when I feel completely lost–but god fucking forbid I fall in love with him.
Jump Piece (Tehching Hsieh, 1973). Another piece about falling. Another piece about self-inflicted pain. Another piece about endurance. He jumped out of the second-floor window of his home in Taiwan. When he landed on the concrete below, he broke both of his ankles. The entire fall was recorded on film, but he destroyed the video evidence, leaving behind only six still frames. It was about conquering the fear of jumping, of falling, of pain.
I knew it from the start, how this was going to end, what was waiting for me at the bottom, but I still jumped anyway. He was never going to catch me, never even opened his arms, never even looked up. But I could hear that lulling voice calling to me from the void below, beckoning me, urging me. Jump.
And he filled my head with all those promises, all those proclamations of his longing and his adoration, and he put love songs on my playlist and wrote me that list of all the ways in which he thinks I’m “perfect” and he was consistent and he was there. But he didn’t fight for me in October, he let me walk away. And when I came crawling back in November, itching for another fix, he welcomed me back with open arms.
But will he still think I’m beautiful when none of my clothes seem to fit right? when old scars resurface and new ones take shape? when I beg for this to be love? when I bite my tongue clean off? when I’m no longer twenty?
Meghan Haydon is a writer from Southern California. She studied creative writing at the University of Washington, where her focus was in poetry, prose, and novel writing. She is currently working on her first novel. Her work has been featured in Barzakh Magazine. Apart from writing, Meghan loves to surf, paint, watch horror movies, and teach surf lessons.
