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Run-on.

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.

-Melissa

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A**hole

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.)

-Melissa

Normal.

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.

-Melissa

Count.

1
2
3
4
5

I’m supposed to count
Calories now
Apparently

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

60
70
100
250
790

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

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
Perfect
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]

320
450
590
630
800

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?

500
650
900
970
1000

Yes.
Because I almost passed out in the shower this morning.

 

-Melissa

They.

They tell you if you eat better, your mood will improve. That your brain is attached to your gut. That if you eat healthy foods, the negative feelings will lesson.

They say if you go to therapy, it will help. They say if you talk about things, you’ll start to feel better. That if you fork over that co-pay every week, you’ll start to reap the benefits.

They say if you exercise, you’ll start feeling more positive. That exercise releases endorphins and you’ll be happier. They say your mood is connected to your body and, if your body feels good, your brain will feel good too.

I think they (whoever they are), I think they’re right. I know there’s science they could stack in front of me and say, “See! Ha! There’s the proof!” I don’t doubt it.

But I am eating better. My doctor has asked that 80% of my diet be fruits and vegetables and I am following that to the best of my ability. But it’s only been a week.

But I did go to therapy. She and I didn’t click and the techniques she used are too experimental. I went. But I only went twice.

But I do exercise. It’s not vigorous. I walk about five miles a day. And I have been doing so for at least the past year, if not the past year and a half. But that’s all I do.

I just… I woke up this morning in the weight. My bones feel hollow and laced with exhaustion. My thoughts are slow. My body feels silent.

I want to sit somewhere quiet. Somewhere comfortable. I want my phone to be muted. Somewhere warm. I want to sit somewhere where I don’t face any expectations. Where no one is demanding or asking anything of me. Where someone I care about is sitting next to me. Where I don’t have to think or speak.

I wish this feeling could be helped. But honestly? I don’t think it can. Maybe it can for others. I know how ridiculous and narcissistic it sounds – I know it sounds like I think I am the double standard to the rest of the human race – but I don’t think it can be helped for me.

-Melissa

Didn’t.

I didn’t want to go back.

I didn’t want to go back to be bombarded with responsibilities. I didn’t want to go back and have people who didn’t know me talk to me. Talk at me. Ask me questions. Expect something I can’t give.

And, if I got past that, I didn’t want to go back to the quiet. I didn’t want to lay in bed. To try to sleep. To then not sleep well.

I didn’t want to wake up tired or angry or sad or numb or any combination of those things. I didn’t want the fight of knowing I should get out of bed and staying anyway. I didn’t want the pressure of having to leave my bed, my safe space, and move through another day that would be tiring and long and taxing.

I didn’t want to go back.

I went back anyway.

– Melissa

Blackout.

I could seee
A bit
Fragmented light peering
Cautiously
Over blackout shades
The ceiling bland
Staring
Dejected
In and through grey
Thinking of the day

Ahead
There’s water
In my eyes
how is it
That a normal day
Can make me weak
Without even
Stepping foot in it?
How is it
That this bland
This darkness

Is more appealing?
Promise myself
I will get through
There won’t be
Any need
To perform
To be
Anything
At all
Where I can
Where I will
Only lay in quiet
My only friend

Sleep
To keep me company
Promise myself
I’ll make it
Back
To the blackout shades