All posts by manymelissthings

About manymelissthings


My hands are really dry.

I remember now why I don’t paint my nails because they’re chipped and it doesn’t look very good and I’m not in high school anymore but someone told me the other day that nail polish remover makes your nails thinner and honestly that makes a lot of sense to me and it explains why my nails have been so much stronger in the past few years but the polish is chipping and I don’t know how to get it off without nail polish remover.

My hands are dry.

I did a good job today I washed the dishes and I cleaned up the recycling and I vaccumed and organized a part of my room that I never get to and then I ate ice cream and maybe it was the ice cream because eating ice cream is supposed to be fun and good but I ate too much and then I felt like a horrible person and now I have to sit in this room by myself and act like everything is okay and I think everything IS okay but my brain does this thing and you know it because you’re reading it and to get the whole picture you need to read these words as fast as you can and that’s what it’s like when my brain is spinning just words and words and words and my hand my hands my hands.

My hands are dry.

When my hands are dry my skin doesn’t feel like I think it’s supposed to like it’s slowly breaking apart and I’m left wondering what in the world is still inside and if it’s going to come out like water or sand and everything squeezes together and nails in my palm and lean lean lean I don’t think I’m supposed to lean and do people get tired of the leaning do I hurt them by the leaning because I can’t stomach that I can’t stomach hurting them because I’m leaning and the opposite of leaning is burying and I think that’d be easier but I think it’s hard to bury after you’ve leaned because when you go to bury the people you’ve leaned on will notice your weight is gone and I don’t know how to help them not notice and maybe helping them to not notice would help them in the long run.

My hands are dry. It’s uncomfortable.




It was only meant for a
Little while
And desperation was twisted
Like ribbons and ribbons and ribbons
Weaving their way through my skin
My muscles
My veins.
I stare at the ceiling and
Think about the window
And I know normal people
Don’t think about the window
Normal people don’t wonder
How high up they are
How far down they’d fall
Not normal people
The ribbon is twisting
Twisting and twisting and twisting my brain
Until it slices something
Chaos abuses me
How can your brain feel like circles
And ribbon
And twisting
But barely have a thought at all?
What’s a windpipe and
Are you sure I have one?
Does it twist down with the ribbon
And tie my stomach into knots?
Does my hair pierce it’s way
Through my shoulders as I sleep
And make my muscles angry and sadistic?
Waking up with headaches
Isn’t as bad as it used to be and bad is good
But is good because bad?
And it’s twisting
Lights are broken and shattered
Bulbs are shards and
I’m barefoot
Dancing and dancing and dancing and
Twisting and twisting and twisting
And there are ribbons in my fingertips


I called in ‘sick’ to work and wondered, is this my life?

I stepped up to the pharmacy window. I’d gotten a message my medication was ready. I was irrationally angry and annoyed and furious because I’d left the house later than I planned. I silently fumed waiting for my prescription, the woman helping me doing everything right and being quick about it. I tried to smile as I left the counter. Is this my life?

I sat in the doctors office, tears calmly rolling down my face, and I answered all the questions she asked. My answers revealed the medication they had me on didn’t seem to be working. He told me we would find something. Is this my life?

Trying to wash the dishes, I worked to get enough out of the sink to actually accomplish the task. I ended up in a ball on the floor, hyperventilating. Is this my life?

I stepped out of my office to use the restroom. Shutting the door behind me, I was bombarded with negative thoughts, telling me everything would be better if I didn’t exist. And that I should make that happen. I washed my hands and went to my next meeting. Is this my life?

I laid in bed, trying to sleep. It was three in the morning and everyone I knew was sleeping. I needed to be in the presence of another person. My bed was uncomfortable. I thought about going to an all night clinic to just sit with someone else around. I thought about calling an anxiety hotline. Do they have those? Is this my life?

Sitting in front of my therapist, she shook her head. She told me, of all the people she’s seen, I have the most irrational guilt. The biggest guilt complex. She told me she didn’t want to force me to come every week, but I needed to. I still don’t think I fully understand or can grasp the severity of my depression and anxiety. Is this my life?

I texted a friend, who happens to be my boss, as I sobbed uncontrollably. It was a little after 10pm. I asked if she was still awake. The next morning when we saw each other, she asked if I was okay. I said, “It was nothing. I figured it out.” Is this my life?

My chest was tight and my shoulders were aching as I hunched over my to-do list. It was long and nothing on it was particularly hard. I buried my face in my hands and said, “It’s too much.” Is this my life?

It was 2pm and I realized I’d only drank about a half cup of water and hadn’t eaten anything yet. I leaned my head back against the wall and sighed. Is this my life?

It’s hard for me to believe this is the life I’m living. Knowing all I’m capable of and not being able to do almost anything. Every task, life itself, feels debilitating. It’s so tiring.

I’m told there’s another side. The people around me have hope. But, as I sit in the passengers seat of my friend’s truck, watching the scenery pass by, I see someone leaving a grocery store. I watch at them, walking to their car, and I wonder, “But isn’t everyone sad all of the time? Isn’t this normal? Doesn’t everyone carry this?” I don’t say any of that out loud. Logically, I know the answer. But I can’t wrap my mind around it.

– Melissa



They aren’t moments I want to remember. Nightly, sitting in front of the tv telling myself I should be doing something else. Something more productive. The dishes need washed. A pile of books to read. A load of laundry. Vacuuming the floor. Or just sitting, watching tv, just waiting for the appropriate time to turn it off and go to sleep. My thoughts get slower. I can feel a gradual descent. Spiraling down until I’m three floors lower and I don’t know how I got here but here I am. The weight is this lofty thing, defying possibility and hovering above me. I can feel it’s presence and worry over it landing completely and suffocating me. There’s tears in my eyes and I don’t know where the sadness came from or why it’s here but I know it is and if I can just get myself to sleep, I can ignore it.

And the dreams are chaos. Too much detail. Too much thought. Too long. Too many colors. Too many characters. After a few days or a week of them, they’re just expected and I miss the nights of silence and black and rest. The majority of the too many details fade as I wake and, by the afternoon, I can’t recall a single one.

I’m sitting there and she’s asking me a question. If I made the call. And I nod and she’s happy because she thinks that’s the right decision. She believes it’s chronic, this sadness and this panic and the way they intertwine, and she thinks this will help. But I don’t want it. I don’t want to keep opening my wallet. Everything costs money. I feel like I’m throwing it at people. I don’t understand how my brain broke or what’s wrong with my stomach or the why my shoulders and head ache. I think my toe is really broken. And I haven’t told anyone because they’ve all forgotten by now but it’s still swollen and redder than the others and sometimes it still hurts and even starts to hurt right below my toe and I really think I fucked it up and what can they do for a toe anyway? Because they thought my wrist was broken and then made me pay four hundred dollars and it’s not even broken but it still hurts sometimes and really I just think this is my lot in life – – that things hurt sometimes and there’s no rhyme or reason and there’s no way to fix it so you just keep moving and keep using your wrist and keep walking on your toe and keep using your brain and keep eating food and hoping your stomach digests it properly and keeping going into situations where you’re uncomfortable and just grin and bear it and hope the smile doesn’t fall off of your face because when it does everyone thinks you hate them even though the truth is you just don’t have the energy to pick the smile off of the ground right now because your toe hurts and your wrist aches a bit and your head is pounding and you’re sick to your stomach and your brain is breaking and it’s making your thoughts slow but you have to worry above all else about how you’re being perceived and then everyone wonders why you just want to stay in your apartment and not come out and really you just want to feel safe and just want to not have to put up any kind of front and you can’t help but do so when you’re around people and when you don’t they wonder what’s wrong and want you to talk about it but your thoughts are slow and you can feel your mood effecting them and you just want to go back to bed and look up jobs you can have while not having to leave your house and you wonder if those jobs come with insurance and other benefits because you have those things now and it still cost you four hundred dollars for them to tell you there was nothing wrong with your wrist so you didn’t even bother asking anyone again why it still hurts sometimes.

It’s just too much.



I’ve been accused lately of not talking enough, of not saying what I’m feeling enough.

I mean…

You’re not wrong.

(Warning: I’m going to say ‘asshole’ a lot in this blog. I’m sorry if it offends you.)

I’m in kind of a weird predicament right now. My friend is becoming friends with an asshole. Again.

Now, asshole is very charming. When he’s nice, he’s really nice. He makes you feel included and… special in some way. He did that to me when I first met him. I was determined to hate him (because he’s an asshole). But I ended up really liking him. Now I care for him deeply and want to have a friendship with him.

Months ago, he told me he wanted that too. But, you see, I’ve come to find that he is only friendly toward me when it’s convenient for him. Honestly, if it doesn’t fit his particular fancy that day, he doesn’t give me a second glance. And, to be completely frank, I have no idea if he even knows he does it and – if he does know – I know he doesn’t care.

Told you. Asshole.

But still, because of who I am and the fact that my heart just attaches itself to some people, I still care about him and really want to be his friend.

Now the friend I was talking about – he’s hanging out with the asshole again. And by “hanging out” — well, it’s a little more than that, okay? We’ll not get into the details and hope you can just catch my drift. So, obviously there’s more… benefit… for the asshole if he “hangs out” with my friend vs. hanging out with me.

The logical part of me understands this. I can’t give asshole what he wants – nor do I want to – and therefore am no use to him. I’m telling you. Asshole.

To be fair, I’m also not reaching out to him. In my defense, the couple of times I have, he’s rejected my offer. Kindly, I will say. But rejection all the same. One was just a quick run to the store and one was getting dinner. The kicker to that is I expected the rejections. You know why? Because they weren’t on his terms. They weren’t his idea. And you know what he is, right? That’s correct.

An asshole.

So my friend is hanging out with him and I think I’m jealous? Or hurt? I think jealousy comes from hurt, so probably both?

I don’t know why. Is it because I can see a friendship between us and am sad we’ll never get to have it because he’s an asshole? Is it because my friend has been hanging out more with him which means no one is hanging out with me? Is it because all three of us could hang out but I’m never invited? Like, I’d be more than happy to join you both on the trip to lowes.

But three’s a crowd, right?

Like I said, logically I get it. I can’t provide the type of friendship asshole apparently wants — the kind with benefits — and so he doesn’t bother with me. And maybe my friend is a little tired of me and wants some variety in his life. And – c’mon – he wants the benefits too.

(I mean, I can almost guarantee he’s not texting me back right now because of the benefits.)

I guess I just don’t know. It’s probably just me being petty and pathetic. I mean, it’s really not that hard to have another friend, is it? But asshole doesn’t care what people think. He’s told me multiple times he doesn’t need friends. He’s said he doesn’t have time to care about what people are feeling.

Why the hell do I want to be friends with him again? He’s such an asshole.

(He just texted me back. I was right.)



I think I was in high school when I first had the thought. Or middle school? I remember I what road I was driving on in my home town when I visualized it.

I wished I could take a syringe and plunge it through my skin. I wished I could extract pain. It was this clear liquid, a little more dense than water. And I would take out enough to fill this clear, glass box that didn’t have a lid. Then, when someone came by and touched it, they could feel what I felt. And they could tell me if they felt pain like that too or if mine was different. They wouldn’t take the pain, it would still be mine, but they’d be able to understand.

I thought of that again today. And this time, I’d add doctors. Doctors and biologists and chemists and psychologists. They could touch the pain and feel it and test it and study it. Then they could tell me if it was normal. They could tell me that if what I’m feeling, what I’m experiencing, is normal and I’m just being dramatic and making a big deal out of nothing. Or they could tell me if it wasn’t normal. They could tell me if I needed help.

I feel like my mind shut me off to something the other day. Like this giant, metal garage door came crashing down, trapping me in this room, this box. And the sound was deafening. I feel like I’m reeling from the shock of that door hitting the cement ground and sending shock waves up my legs and my body and into my brain. And now I’m dazed, wondering what the hell to do next and if that giant, metal door is even real in the first place.

How do I explain that to someone? That feeling? Because it’s not going to make sense to anyone. It doesn’t even make sense to me.

If I could just extract the pain and allow you to just briefly touch it, you could tell me if it was normal.




I’m supposed to count
Calories now

The doctor looked at me
Told me he hadn’t meant
To make
Me cry
Told me eighty percent of my diet
Should be fruits
And vegetables


But I didn’t know
About calories
How many one needs
you know

So I almost passed out in the shower this morning.

Doesn’t seem fair
I was trying to do
What I was told
eighty percent
But I almost passed out in the shower this morning.

She called me
My blood results were in
Everything was normal
But he’d still like me
To eat eighty percent fruits
And vegtables

And also:
No meat
No gluten
No dairy
And stay away from
All that processed sugar
[thanks America]


I’ve been doing my best
Though I don’t know
What the other twenty percent is

And I almost passed out in the shower this morning.

And there’s ice cream in the freezer

My plate, full of fruits and vegtables
A little bit of cheesy rice

I told him
“I almost passed out in the shower this morning”

He looked at my plate
“I don’t think you’re eating enough calories”

“Well how many is this?”

He looked at my plate again,
He doesn’t know
He guesses probably
four hundred

“How many am I supposed to have?”

“Probably around seventeen hundred a day”

I’m trying to do what I was told
Trying to eat
eighty percent
Trying to track my food

Now I have to count calories too?


Because I almost passed out in the shower this morning.