I really did think I would have found a way out of this mess by now, but no luck. I guess you canâ€™t â€œfind the way outâ€ when the mess is your life and you have created it.
Yup, itâ€™s time for the bi-yearly inventory taking, and had I done this two weeks ago, I would have passed with flying colors. What a happy little ugly duckling I was, thinking I just might make it as a swan one day after all. But I canâ€™t seem to pass â€˜Go.â€™ Iâ€™m not going to collect $200. Iâ€™m stuck on Pennsylvania Avenue and I canâ€™t seem to roll a six, except this is Life and not a game of Monopoly. Iâ€™ve got my car, my partner in the next seat and his offspring in the backseat, and what else have I done? Oh, a one-year lease on yet another apartment. At least Iâ€™m not pregnant. At least there is that.
Okay, kiddo, so you have identified the problems: no career, no education, your lover is twice your age and his daughter half yours, your lousy health is back to taunt you some more, and youâ€™re still having nightmares about people whom you knew ten years ago. Ten years! Was it that traumatic that you wonâ€™t let go? Just let go. Move on. Everyone else has. You think youâ€™re so special that you get to live in the state of mind of yourself as a thirteen year old forever?
I donâ€™t remember my thirteenth birthday. Itâ€™s the only one I canâ€™t remember. My friends and I had gone to see Depeche Mode two weeks earlier as my party, and the rest of my memories from that summer blur together and are now tinged with the insight that I wish I had then. If I could choose one moment in time to go back to and give myself a damned good talking to, it would probably be that summer. Things had been fucked up before then, but after that summer things started to spiral out of control.
Since then I keep thinking I have regained that control, but right now that thought seems laughable. Iâ€™ve been falling down a physical relapse for the past two weeks, probably due to recent over-exertions from moving. Now Iâ€™m back at the point where it hurts too much to get out of bed, but the more I stay in bed, the more it hurts. Just like when I was in school ten years ago, I wake up at five in the morning, hear the birds chirping and see the sun just starting to color the view outside my window. I think to myself \”Now would be a great time to get up; thereâ€™s a lot to be done.\” I try to move. I canâ€™t. Iâ€™m exhausted. I fall back asleep and catnap for the next two to three hours, awaking in the middle of nightmares every hour or so, only to helplessly be drawn back into them. By the time my lover is ready to get out of bed, Iâ€™m as tired and sore as I was when I went to bed at eleven the night before. Then I think \”fuuuuck,\” and if it werenâ€™t for being in this apartment, with a naked guy poking his morning boner into my back, I could very easily mistake myself for still being thirteen. Sometimes, I still do, because when I wake up sick, itâ€™s very much like nothing else has changed. If itâ€™s still dark when I wake up, and my lover is on the other side of the bed past my reach, I canâ€™t see a damn thing and in my morning FMS fog, with nightmares of my middle school classmates still hovering in my now conscious mind, I get trapped in the past. Sometimes it follows me throughout the rest of the day. Today has been one of those days.
Iâ€™m two days short of twenty-three. Officially old. Past the age of being a child prodigy. No longer is it extraordinary for me to have accomplished something — the pressure is off! Now I can fail in peace! Hooray!
Except Iâ€™m not celebrating. Iâ€™m not happy. Had to call in sick for work for yet another day today. Iâ€™m afraid I might lose my job. My eyes are too dry to take kindly to my contacts and my face is too swollen to accept wearing my glasses, so I sit around here half blind. Canâ€™t see to watch the television and my arms and hands hurt too much to hold anything to read. Can only see the computer monitor with my face four inches from the screen. My jaw is swollen to the point where I canâ€™t open my mouth all the way, which not only means that I wonâ€™t be giving any blowjobs any time soon, but that it also hurts to talk. My body is surely the thing that I dislike the most.
Have you ever noticed that \’invalid\’ has two very different definitions? Right now, waiting for my boyfriend to get home to feed me, I feel like both meanings. I canâ€™t trust my body, and therefore, I canâ€™t trust myself. I want to move on, grow up, change, but I feel so trapped. Guess Iâ€™m still waiting for someone to come clear this disabled vehicle out of the way, as itâ€™s holding up traffic.
Did you remember to take your meds today? No? Maybe you should call the doctor and see about raising the dose.