I’d like to think that I am in a rut, not a depression. I think of all the what-ifs again lately; I cried hard before I got in the shower this morning. I sat there, waiting for the water to heat so I could burn myself a little, stinking of sweat and blood. Last night was terrible. The night before was equally bad. Tonight will be worse because everything feels like it is gone. My mother texted me while I sat there, naked. She told me she was going to vacation for a week or two. I don’t really care, so I left it alone and cried some more and laughed and called myself crazy. I did the only thing I knew how to do. I solved the problem of having tits I hate to look at and bought a push up bra and went to a late night CD Exchange to try and find a copy of “Gish”. I could only find a bra that sort of fits well and Steve Miller Band CDs. I bought the bra that fit weird and a copy of “Juno” instead of “Gish” then got lost on the way home again because my phone doesn’t have a good map on it. I’ll stop at a gas station sometime and buy a paper one I guess. It’s good to lie about solving problems when I am in a rut like the one I’ve slunk into seasonally.
The funny thing is, I am all alone. I know I’ve said it so many times and I’ve said I love it that way, now I sound like I’ve run out of material. The rut has leeched into any sort of mediocre creativity I possess which is worrisome, but I do mean to explain what aloneness looks like. When I am missed, I am available to make the missing lesser. When I miss in the same way, I am told to wait a few days; it’ll go away. I know I am a good person to be around when nothing is going right, so, I guiltily wish ill upon people when I want to see them. I couldn’t sleep last night after I hung up the phone. Birds nesting on the fire alarm outside my door were arguing. I felt bad for wanting to spray them with water. I thought about moving my pillow and taking a sleeping bag to the balcony. I like to sleep outside when it’s warm and the air is sticky and smells like weed; all to remind me of the summer before I moved away from home.
There is something inside of me, a bomb I can’t figure out the shape of, and I am waiting for a bad thing to happen. The thing has been there for years now. It’ll come soon enough if I call it loudly, and when I finally wreak havoc on everything around me, I’ll stop feeling so hungry. I’ll hit my head as hard as I can like I learned from my old friend, again and again, and buy a pack of pencils to snap them all into pieces and pick splinters from my fingers. I will probably leave my hair alone, I no longer find satisfaction in cutting it. I will hit my legs as hard as I can like I like to do so I can leave bruises. I’ll keep screaming in the car and honking at people until they feel as angry with me as I am at nothing in particular. I’m fine proving my mother right. I want to see everyone scream back at me.
I can see it all so clearly. I still feel afraid of things though, don’t get me wrong. Did you know that when I cross intersections I cringe in anticipatory pain? I can hear the sound of another car hitting me so hard, driver’s side, hard enough I go to a hospital. I worry nobody in particular will know.
There is a part of me that thinks maybe I need to take a long nap which I never wake up from, but I’d only do it if I was held in someone’s arms while I tried to fall asleep. I’d want the only man I’ve ever loved to watch me and tell me he will be there whenever I wake up.
I am lonely too.
