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Coffee stains my nervous system. It burns my insides. But with the introduction of organic arabic beans, the side effects are lessened. Endorphin creation is heightened. Hello emotion! Did you miss your colorful peripherals? Do you remember the words? Did you miss the lights and sounds? Will the brilliancy go away? Was it always so dull? Was sleep really so important to regeneration? I've been told if I ever tripped on LSD, I would manifest my own physical death. Some people are sensitive even to the safest of drugs. Coffee merely defines existing lines. With peyote, I would see ectoplasm!
As we speak, I'm in the middle of a sugar nightmare. This is not real life. This is the paralytic state between reality and the release of our psychosis, battling it out to define wheter I'm asleep or awake. Minutes ago, I floated up from my pillow, showered, put lotion on, checked my phone. But it's too surreal and I feel someone, something is behind my view. Everything is hurtful. Silence, Facebook, the guilt of eating that damn cake. Something heavy is pressing down my chest. Is it that nasty hypnogogic purgatory or was it too much cream cheese frosting?
This is going may gross you out boys, but here's a nasty little secret: Girls love pooping. We love losing weight. But not more than we love to dump, because that means we're dropping digits. Yes, we all do it and we revel in it. Think of the hottest mental picture girl in your spank bank. She poops. You know Jolie, Fox, Theron...they shit big terds. All a woman really wants is icy cold diarrhea. Why do you think we love Jamba Juice so much? We know the trick combo: fiber pills, habanero sauce, and coffee: 5 pounds, gone!
Well, she's gone. Now I'm the only female in a company of about 40 males. The Queen B. B for whatever you want it to be. Thankfully, the men there speak respectfully to me. They do not stare, at least they try not to be ogres about it. They excuse themselves. When I decline a lunch or a drink, they do not persist. The do not diminish my simple secretarial position. In fact, they remind me of the valuable cog I am in the machine. There are no tensions, contentions, dramas, rifts, stereotypes. Just respect, equals, peers.
When he's gone for work, the hard parts are bed time and getting going in the morning. I try not to turn on the television for company and fail. I'm baking myself consolation treats made out of chickpeas and dates. Smells delicious. I wake up with little swelling and my hair dried like a homeless person. I wander around and find the Soma. Remember Brave New World? That book scares the shit out of me, yet here I am. No severe back pain and popping one. Can't relax with him, can't relax without him. Gotta go, I'm gonna be late.
What kind of idiot sits at a tea party chair, explaining to a 3 year old, that the babies cannot sleep because its a doll dance party? This one! I used to be so good at playing pretend. Now I crave the plot to be logical. How disconnected does it get? After she turned off the lights, and the nightlight on and mimicked sleepy time, I walked away to help the momma with the laundry. Next time, I aim to help her throw the damned-est party on Princess Avenue. I don't care if they're not dressed for the pool.
While the husband's away, the wife will...
-eat onions, purple, green, pearl
-wear granny panties
-clean uninterrupted and obsessively
-relax her cooter
-do all the dignity robbing body maintenance rituals
-wear sexiest lingerie
-watch chick flicks
-break into stash of twinkies
-fantasize about things he might like
-check any sagging parts in mirror
-hate oneself freely
-find time to read and write
-remember why she loves him
-find all his missing items
-have full conversations with pets
-try to keep her hands upstairs
-force herself not to call so much
March 8th. What a very special day, for reasons I don't find necessary to define. But there the full pearl moon stands suspended in the blackened sky, glaring back as if waiting, in suspense of something grand to occur. This month is not of equinox or solstice. There is no faux neopagan dancing some druid rite around a monolithic phallic stone of old. Maybe a few historical dates with significant attributes to these 31 days. But this month has always felt special and mysterious. And I think that sneaky gravity resistant man knows that something tremendous is around the corner.
You mean to tell me the same Friday that was last week, is here again? And that all throughout history, the previous 7 days equaled one week? And that for the rest of eternity, this phenomenon, this Day of Frigg, will repeat a pattern of reccurence? Really! Please, somebody else who hasn't already mentioned the atmosphere's temperature or told me you're going to yet another junior baseball game, I pray beg of you, tell me it's fucking Friday till it's so far down embedded in my waking conscious that I'll never stand to hear it again. Thank God It's Fucktard-day!
His pictures are up and will remain up on the walls. It felt like he was gonna come home any minute. When she wasn't looking, I would stare at his pictures. He wasn't my husband. I don't think I have the right to cry because I miss him. She does, but she holds off until she's alone. My stupid curious nature, I wanted to ask the little boy if he missed daddy. What kind of reaction was I expecting? I resisted, thank God. But I will answer his question: Yes, I will come and sleep over one of these nights.
Just one brilliant thought, one magical idea, one imaginative glimpse of something, short and brief as it were to come...I just want something inspiring to hit me before I have to go to sleep. I don't have to write it, share it with anyone, dissect it. I just something out of this world, outside my box, unfamiliar and grand, to happen to me, even if its inside my head. Maybe a phone call or text that blows me away. That makes me a stranger to myself. I wanna lose myself for a second. Before tomorrow becomes a realization again.
I suppose I've been using this little project as an outlet. I wish I didn't. There are other wonders, limited as I am, that I'd love to explore. But I've been chained to these thoughts, because the pain keeps reminding me. I've learned not to cry as much. The things I get excited about: when I pee; when I get two minutes of sun without forgetting why I'm there, when I forget to talk about my diets, when I walk longer than fifteen minutes without spasms. I could almost remember having accept this at some point. Guess it's not so.
The best way I can describe myself is relationship deprived. Even though I have thriving relationships, as a whole, it's incomplete. That's what I've heard. Women still need their girlfriends, even if they have a man. But the ones that are, are missing something. They don't fill the voids. How many more compartments need filling? I communicate through phone, text, email; my friends have moved away, or I have. And at this point I'm not easy enough to get along with any old boring person, so I'm bored regardless. I wish I had the drama of attaining and losing friends.
Fifteen minutes before it ends is the perfect time to bail without rushing to my car. No need for small talk. Don't touch me. Don't hug me. Don't squish me. Don't cock your head and ask how I'm doing. I don't want to smell you or your perfume or body odor. After sitting for two hours, my knees throb, my muscles aches, my blood is stagnant, my veins are about to pop, and my feet are boats. I just want to leave, drive off, lay down, sleep it off or start running for miles. The latter is not an option.
It was good, being at the beach. Under the sun, where I've been a million times. This time around, it was more of rekindling with UV rays. Reconciling my relationship with heat and radiation. In 0-60 minutes I'd darkened at least four shades. I still internally harped on my belly, envied the athletic girls, and made up diets for the chubbsters that were tanning. It was nothing new, except that I now get hives and dizzy spells as soon as I exit the water. But not even an aversion to the sun can keep me from repeating this history.
These Friday's are insufferable. This month unending. He's gone so much. Mine, only on the weekends. Of course this is the time, my subconscious torments me with dreams of the what-ifs, the ones the got away, the exes. The parties, the blurs, the night drives, the chase, the unknown, the possibilities. Now is the time of predictability, loneliness, longing, quiet, silences. I wish my blood could handle a bit of toxicity. I would chug that bottle of wine into a cozy numb slumber. Well I know, tomorrow I would remember he's what I want, always wanted. I miss him.
Just as expected. From my third cycle of disturbed REM cycling, I am softly woken up by a tired, beat up, man, who drove four midnight hours to lay down next to me and start his cycling. I've told him not to wake me up, but secretly I want to be woken. In comparison to all the bad dreams I'm forced to endure til the morning without interruptions, this is the kind where you can splash cold water on my face. The reality of seeing my provider, husband, a man who beats odds, who's come a long way for us.
How do you ask a man, will you love me if my hair fell off? He might say yes, even more easily than you think. But you will secretly give him permission to fantasize about other blonde bombshells or flowing bronze brunettes. You will never forget you are wearing a wig when he fucks you. Look at me, crying like I'm the only woman who has this fear. Like it's the first time a girl mourns her beauty. I should be lucky I've even had moments where I actually thought I was pretty. What a bag of suck I am.
Fuck like a rockstar? On the medicine. Luscious age-appropriate hair. Off the medicine. If I could remove the portion of my brain that dwells on health related issues, and direct it toward productivity, I'd be unstoppable. If another slice would be cut, representing the time I spend wondering how many burnt calories it would take to not grab that extra little flubber, I would've made history books. If this country wasn't overloaded with carcinogens, toxins, chemicals, and monster killers in our air, I would be normal. People hail the survivors as heroes, but if we die, did we fail?
Futures I never foresaw: being a hat girl. My head is too small and my hair was too wild to be tied down, except for the running ponytail. But if I want to keep my hair on my head and still tan, skull clothing it is. Military cap, Puma. It's kinda cool lookin. Cinched to the last notch. It will also prevent partial heat exposure since I'm intolerant to high temperatures. And, bonus, it will hide my insecurities. My deepest insecurity I thought was always my belly. Nope. Luckily, my head never looks fat in a hat. Or a cat.
Wow. I actually hit send. I've always wanted to send a letter to my last psychiatrist. The cute one. I mean, not because he was handsome. That was just a bonus that kept me coming back when I would argue with him (more so myself) that therapy was stupid; that I needed to suck it up, swallow it down, and take care of my own problems by being a hard ass. Yea, that never worked. I hope he doesn't write back. I hope I didn't sound like an idiot. I hope he tells me that he'll take me back , pro-bono.
Felicity reruns. Oh...holy shit! I'm 29. Just now! I just turned 29, married, full timer at a dead end job. And I'm watching a high school show about college kids who are finding the meaning of life while sleeping with each other. I should, at the least, be watching Ally McBeal, about an unstable woman with an uncontrollable imagination and slammed with self-doubt and figuring out relationships in an office setting. Honestly, I shouldn't be watching anything. I should chug the remainder of my tepid peach detox tea, give this day up, and sleep. But it's already morning.
It's a shrinks job, not his, to let me ruminate freely on chewing about my hair, my medications, my bad days, my hip pain. I can't keep bogging the ones I love down with the same old shit. I need to start making decisions on things they will never understand and making them silently, without harassing their un-plagued world. I must stop rendering them helpless with my constant blathering on things that will not improve from one minute to the next. I must schedule I time to cry, alone, then rejoin humanity, and keep fighting with a smile on.
Perfectly round sequins. Hundreds of them, turquoise and white. I plan to dance around like I would've three years ago. With a red bull and vodka in hand, without sucking it in, with towering heels, with a side glance that pulls men toward me, with thick thighs and lean muscle...granted, none of those things are anymore. But I can relive it. And I will handcuff myself to another married girl in the group to make sure we don't get into any trouble. Unless that situation would make it even more troublesome to those dirty dirty boys. Welcome to Miami.
Seeing my maiden last name adhered with a special sticky paper on my reserved books at the library makes me smile. Internally anyway. I don't usually smile publicly so as not to be a mystery or open book. I miss that surname, of Spanish ancestry. I once detested it, craving an American stamp next to my first name. A Smith or Jones. I have a fluid English last name now, smooth German. But now I miss all the accents and staccato clicks in the name my father gave me. I mourn his future lineage that will never be. So melancholic.
That old man knows my big secret. Well, it's not a secret. I just don't tell it to the unworthy. People who likes terrible news; whether curious or to feel better about themselves. I do it too, so I guard it. But apparently his roommate has a big mouth. And boy, he sees it through me. He knows if I want to laugh or cry; tears of sadness or joy. I must say it unnerves me to be scanned and read so accurately. He so damned understanding of the pain that I could break down if we make eye contact.
While on amphetamines, I was an unstoppable force. I can attest to a true dynamic that emanated from me. Not naturally, but because I wanted it to, so I made it happen. I was thirsty for life and knowledge. It wasn't abuse. But like Paul Erdos didn't produce a lick of math the month he used to prove he was not addicted, I also am still without it. So quiet. Like a soundproof room, so silent... that in forty-five minutes you start hallucinating noises and your heartbeat like a drum in your brain, just to process noise. Any noise!
Everyone is dangerous toying with the dark side lately. Some are unaware that they're shamelessly flirty with forces not to be reckoned with. Oh but it's so funny, so entertaining, so thrilling. Well, when you grow up seeing what I saw, hearing what I did, you develop a respect for it. And you stay in this realm and trust that we don't have the tools to step into another dimension and remain untouched. How they don't feel that ominousness in their home, their minds, their dreams, I don't know. Maybe the other side is playing nice until things get irreversible.
It's the most chilling night of the year. Not the full moon tomorrow. The partial moon. The night before he died. An evening of anticipation and anxiety. Chills me to the bone marrow. I'm not sentimental about accounts and stories I read, but this one, without wanting to get too attached, exposes that hole my soul. The one we all have that never gets filled. And it just makes you question, and wonder, and appreciate. I don't like to be one of "those" Jesus freaks. But when you humanize him, as he surely was for some time, it'll certainly penetrate.
Little needles all over my chakras, at the mercy of a small studied Asian, or an Eastern wannabee... I trust the art, the science, but I'm still reluctant. At this point, I doubt anything can lessen the progression of my disease. I doubt anything good will not have an explosive side effect. Every medicine and treatment that they say is foolproof, detoxifying, miraculous, what have you, has found a way to amplify whatever autoimmune response that hasn't yet attacked a weak spot. But I told myself I won't stop trying. So I better lay still and pretend I'm a pincushion.
If survival of the fittest rings true, than I'm at the bottom of the food chain, and so is anyone who shares my genetics. I would die sooner that the person who's blood can fight allergens. There are millions of people that process calculations way faster and more astutely than I ever will. They will metabolize sugar normally and never gain a pound if they eat 2000 calories a day. When fight-or-flight presents itself, I'd probably just freeze and wait for it. In a mass exodus, where they take the thinkers and rebuilders, I will get left behind.
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