“Yes.“ I swallowed one blue and white pill, half the dose the bottle tells me in 6 point Times New Roman font. Just enough to keep me from wanting to stick my head in the oven or lay down on train tracks and fall asleep, but not enough to make me starting feeling alive.
She doesn’t remind me about last night and I don’t remind her.
Blood, too much, dizzy. Fall. Bruises on my hipbones, neck, and knees from the ground. Footsteps running for me, then a voice saying ‘omigawd, omigawd’ because I’ve torn myself open again.
you need to go to the hospital, you need to go to the hospital for crazy people.
There’s yelling and screaming and whydidyoudothat and thatwassostupid and whyariwhy. Dad rushes home from work to see the mess I've made.
I started crying and called Tiger while mom was calling places on the other phone. I said I love you over and over and sorry. Hung up, realized I had a few minutes to talk, called back. Tiger made me laugh despite the fact I was red puffy-eyed and miserable.
Somehow, yet again, I’ve managed to avoid inpatient though. All the places are booked until March, and the ones that have beds aren’t accepting teenagers. So fix the bleeding, crank up the pills, send me to therapy three times a week.
According to Dr. M, prozac not helping is ‘proof’ that I’m bi-polar. I still think it’s bullshit. Truly. [plus, it’s just another thing that makes me more like him. another thing that he has part of. no.]
---
The box of razorblades says 'Caution: Sharp Objects'. Like caution means something any more. Caution is a game, a fake. Is a warning label on a bottle of alcohol, like the afterthought-words will change your mind. Is the half useless filter on a chemical-filled cigarette. Is putting a bandaid on the track mark left by a needle on the inside of your elbow. Caution is looking down into the water before you jump off the bridge.
I feel the shape of the plastic box in my pocket, rubbing my finger pads against it like a worry stone. You’re talking at a million miles per an hour. About vodka, some guy named David, your new glittery blue eyeliner, the skirt you bought at Forever 21. I say ‘mhm’ and ‘cool’ and ‘what?’ in all the right places, feigning participation.
“How are you feeling?“ you suddenly ask, remembering I am not a dump for all the words you don’t know what else to do with. But the truth is you don’t want to know the real answer. You want me to say ‘I’m fine’ and hide the stars in my eyes and the water under my skin.
“I want to jump off a bridge.” I laugh almost immediately. I sound more stung than amused. “I meant to say I want to draw a bridge. Not jump off one.” Hopefully you forgot what a Freudian slip is.
“How was your Valentines Day?”
“It was good.” On the fourteenth I sat in the bathtub bleeding, debating whether or not if the fact a vein was spurting meant something. On the fourteenth she was begging me to call an ambulance. I decided that it didn’t matter.
It doesn’t feel like February anyways. It feels like November of last year or July of this year. I’m stuck in eight years ago, a sewer rat accidentally encased in concrete, a housefly stuck to a wax strip.
“Have you been…good?”
I wonder if you can hear the amusement in my voice. “Yes, I’ve been a good girl,” I say.
“Good.”
After that it’s talk about the weather and more howareyou’s and ohi’mgood’s and then finally I’lltalktoyoulater? okay,talktoyoulater.
Whatever.
breakfast; 1 apple, 20mg prozac, 1 antibiotic, 1 aspirin, 2 chewable vitamins.
lunch; 1/2 cup broccoli, 1 cup black tea.
dinner; tba.
other: n/a.
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