This is NOT all in my head. It’s in yours, and that is the problem.
I guess I have a lot to say these days. I’ve been silently reciting conversations in my head for years and I’m finally letting them come out. Even if the response I hoped for isn’t the one I get, I follow my script, because it’s true.
I choose one place not to lie to myself, and that is in my head. No matter how much I want to take to heart the untruths, I let my conscious play devil’s advocate until I’m so sure of myself, the heat of my truth makes the devil himself wonder why the hell it’s getting so hot.
I’m not sure when the anger built so much I noticed it, but it had been building for so long and it was a slamming door that abruptly made it fill the air.
Next thing, I’m screaming about slamming doors and people being childish and how people are projecting and that you want to smoke weed but can’t because of work and the smell of us smoking upsets you and so fucking what? and don’t bullshit me that your kids are bothered by the smell when I could smell the pot reeking from your house last summer when you used to grow it (we live in a duplex) next to your kids’ bedroom and how you can barely keep your shit together and are trying to control my shit instead and how it’s time for you to try to get your own household together and stop trying to dictate this because you feel like you’re losing control and you also don’t pay jack shit on the bills in this house and marijuana is legal and call the fucking cops because I have my green card and no marijuana left anyway and stop yelling about who needs to be on what drugs for their mental illness because you went from yelling to laughing to crying in a matter of moments and your wife is admittedly off her meds, so go to talk to her about mental health. Don’t fucking tell me how to get my life together when your puzzle is missing 432/1000 pieces.
My mom wasn’t even sure who was yelling because no one has ever heard me that loud, even as a child. I don’t yell. I don’t hit. I don’t throw. I don’t do outward anger, but the gate fell apart when that door slammed in my face.
Next, I won’t let Tom leave the room because, god damnit, you’re going to listen to everything I have to say this time. And then I wouldn’t let him sleep because motherfucker, you wake me up every morning with pseudo-sun lights and music at 7am. WE’RE UNEMPLOYED why the FUCK are we even up at that unkanye hour?
So, I pick and yell and finally, FINALLY, he has something to say back to me that isn’t, “I have nothing to say.”
And when he stepped my mom with that look in his eyes, I stepped to him even faster and let him know that as meek as people think I am, I will fuck up someone who messes with my family. And when I went after him and he pushed me away and I tripped over my mom’s foot, I got up as fast as I could so I could throw anything at him before someone tried to get me under control. I had finally lost control and I had no intention of finding it at any point that night. My younger brother had to, literally, lift me out of the bathroom to keep me from throwing every extra bottle of shampoo and each roll of toilet paper and any thing hard enough to hurt.
I was hurting. I was hurting and I was tired of the fact that he could, “No longer find empathy or compassion.”
I was/am sick. There is something physically wrong with me. I’ve lost almost 40 pounds in 2-2.5 months. Tests are being done. I’m waiting for results. I’m getting no answers from any doctor. I can no longer eat very much, I’m dehydrated ALL of the time. My body hurts, I’m tired after 5 minutes of standing. And why doesn’t he care enough to say, “I’m sorry,” without me repeating myself for hours? And why does the apology sound like guilt or like you were forced? I just miss the person who worried when I was gone at the store for too long.
I have worry. I have to worry. I can’t not worry about the state of my mental and physical health.
I went to Planned Parenthood for a pap smear. [TW: SA] 25 years old and I never had one before. I had one planned for Christmas break of 2009, but that changed quickly when I was raped. And then I was raped again. And so I said, “Fuck it. If no one is making me do it, then I’m not doing it.”
But I went to that appointment, alone, and waited in a paper contraption for a nice, female doctor to come in. Luckily, it someone answered that wish.
I began dissociating the moment I felt the pressure. She tried talking me through it and all I could hear was her Southern accent and my insides being torn apart all over again. And, for those of you who have never had a pap, they use this little brush to get cells from your cervix. I heard her say, “You may feel this, most women don’t.”
But. I. Did.
Aaaand how.
I tightened my clinched fists and crossed arms tighter across my chest and and closed my eyes and I think I may have felt myself praying for it to all just be over. I’ve always promised never to turn to religion in desperation, but that brush felt like it was in there forever and I wanted some kind of divine intervention. I felt I deserved one. I’ve been a fan of literature for years, where was my deus-ex-machina? Why were the Literary Gods shunning me the one time I tried calling out to some Being? Why? Why this? Why that? Why every fucking thing that had been going on lately?
And if you say your are going to call… You better call.
Send him this postcard just so he knows.
I spent a lot of time thinking about you yesterday. I find it strange how quickly we were in and out of touch. You made such an impact on me. I can still feel the cool of the refrigerator on my back from when you kissed me in the kitchen. I fit so neatly into your arms while we cuddled on my bed. I loved being able to smell your cologne on my blanket for a week after.
I wish I knew how you were doing. I wish you would talk to me. I miss knowing you, getting to know you.
I don’t want you to be some guy I used to know, I want you to be my friend.
I miss you. Where are you?
I hope you’re well.
