greet another day.

5:30 am.

Cozy bed.
I gotta get up.
Gotta work.  
So many things to do today.
Don’t wanna.
It can wait till tomorrow.
Wait – did I say that yesterday? Crap, that means I have yesterday’s work AND today’s work to do.
In that case, won’t matter if I put it all off till tomorrow now.
1 day, 2 days, 3… it’s all the same.
If I can just make it to the weekend…. What? Why are the 2 days that start with “S” magical? If anything, I want to do even LESS on the weekends. Weekends are good for being lazy, watching Netflix, eating junk food…
But then again, that’s all I wanna do today, too.
And probably tomorrow.
I know it’s all I did yesterday. Laundry’s still in the washer, pile of dirty clothes is getting ridiculous; Trash Mountain ready to sprout legs & walk away…
I should probably take a shower, too. God, why does it take so much energy to shower?! It’s literally just standing in water. But if I don’t shower, everyone will see from the outside how I feel on the inside. It’s a decent diversion, so I’ll just go take a quick shower… probably not even wash my hair, really. Just enough to get the stink of melancholy off my skin.
What a weird feeling. I must be the only person on earth who gets so existential about personal hygiene. What a dumb thing to even think about. That’s why it’s a thinking thing and not talking – no one needs to know the weird stuff that goes through my brain. But if it goes through mine, something like it must go through other people’s minds – are there other people who are lying in bed right now, counting down the minutes till they can go back to sleep?
I suppose the law of averages states there must be a good amount of people in the same proverbial boat. To extrapolate further, some of them must be in my family or circle of friends. Wonder who? I wonder who thinks I’m that person. (better question – who uses the word ‘extrapolate?’) Her, with the jerk of a boyfriend, who drinks too much and has totally isolated her? She never seems to get too down about it. Angry, sure, but not sad. I think sad packed its bags & drove out of town a long time ago.
Come to think of it, she even jokes about it. Laughs, crassly, about death and having nice things, joining in the comments under my breath, the universal sign for ‘we’re in this together’ – so if we’re in that together, maybe we’re in this together too? This unspoken coping mechanism, with its rusty cogs and broken springs; just creaking by to move the parts, but with no flash or gleam, nothing to show that it’s an important part of a bigger machine.
But if we weren’t both working at it, it would grind to a halt. So she must be pulling her weight, and mine, too. And if she can do all that, endlessly, drag me along like a swaddled albatross, then I really do owe it to her to get up. Get up and at least go through the motions. At least shower, really. After that I can take a nap. Then I can say I did something. Anything.

Push the covers off. Swing the legs over. Sit up creakily and greet another day.


& out of despair…

i’m terrified.
of getting older, and losing the memories that got me here.
of spending more time talking about what was, than about what will be.
of seeing my hope become regret, and realizing that the worst days behind me are still my best days.
of always having that pull in my stomach when i think of certain places, see certain people, or remember certain things.
of seeing more people that i love, people even closer to me, die… of seeing people that i love get sick, or suffer first.
of watching as time and life take their toll on my corner of the universe.
of finishing my time on earth alone.

it hurts, this terror, it pulls at my skin and makes my hair stand on end.

it distracts me during mundane tasks, popping up like a horrible jack-in-the-box.

it keeps me awake at night, experiencing every tragedy that could ever occur, all at once, over and over, til my restless thoughts become my paralyzing nightmares.

it forces distance between the world and me.
it keeps me from getting close, to mitigate the pain of loss.
it magnifies issues of abandonment that are clown-like in their own grotesque crying-inside-but-laughing-outside way.
it makes me hard, coarse, gravelly, cold. like a newly poured foundation – appearing for all the world to be ready for greatness, but for the hairline cracks that will widen with time and force, until they can no longer bear the brunt of the weight laid atop them.
it is this sensation of despair that drives me. i awake each day with the singular purpose of outwitting gravity, of feeling lighter than my cosmic mass should rightly allow, of pushing off the heaviness for one more day, twenty-four more hours that this crushing empathy for existence cannot destroy my soul.
it is beauty from pain.
connection borne of isolation.
and out of despair…


when i get into bed at night, i literally crawl
knees up on the bed, arms splayed, searching for the best spot to flop down
i scrunch myself into a ball, keeping myself warm
rock a little bit to find the mattress’ sweet spot
experiement with arm under the pillow; arm out in front of me, side-sleeper all the way
accomodating for my teddy bear – at 30, i am fully aware of the issues that suggests
but i own them, my need for soothing, for familiarity, for something to always be exactly where i need it.
a little fidgety, i find it calming to make circles with my toes, feeling the sheets slip and give at each complete rotation
i lull myself into a rhythm of stillness, a wiggle here, a readjustment there, until i’m motionless
except for breathing
and at each exhale, i bring the blankets a smidge further up
over my shoulder, into the crook of my neck, a tiny bit on my chin, further up around the back of my head
until all that is left
exposed is my nose
in a cocoon, like a mummy
undead in my bed
on a good night, i don’t move at all, and wake up pleasantly suprised to find myself still wrapped up tight
but sometimes
sometimes the sheets don’t align with my thoughts
i toss and i turn and i flip and i sigh
convinced i have bedbugs, or fleas from my cat
and neurosis kicks in, and my eyelids, at half mast, search out my pile of clean sheets and pillowcases
so i drag myself from my warm spot, strip the bed mercilessly, make a pile of my anxiety in the hamper
and stretch a new beginning across the queen-size span
using clips to keep fitted corners tight, hospital edges on top like my mom taught me,
military-precision on how much hangs over each edge, flat sheet, blanket, comforter and duvet cover
tucked tightly between bed and wall, so that i can’t wrestle them uneven in my sleep
satisfied, i throw myself, with the enthusiasm of a 3-year-old’s temper tantrum, back into bed
start all over again
and wake up like a caterpillar in a chrysalis
happy to emerge like a butterfly from my room
the best part of my day is night.