by Lydia WeinbergerIn this reality I do not remember you, I only ever dated one person, Never got lost in the back of a tall boy's mustang, There was no first semester of college, No semesters after, I did not see you watching me My friend did not flick you off when she saw you staring I have not deleted your number and dozens of emails and I do not save screenshots sent to me by friends, Of you asking me where I live. I do not remember crying everyday, Or shaking while I wait to see you in the patterns, So much more fire than smoke; I did not read your admission of guilt, I did not fear you, Did not avoid buses for fear of being trapped with you, I do not remember the Women's Center, Or being on the phone with the Title IX office, the no contact order, And neither do you when you keep following me. Didn't see you pacing outside of my class. I don't remember because it's so much better to forget, So much easier, Sometimes life takes on a dreamlike quality when I think about you; As though you are just another boogeyman in my countless nightmares, Did I ever tell you I only have nightmares, And now you are in almost all of them. When I'm depressed I lose my ability to track time, and sometimes I think what I went through was a figment of my depression, Or maybe I was just a figment of your mental illness Another thing to obsess over and build paranoia around, Maybe that's why I can't remember, Because the trauma doesn't exist without you. The other day, I fell asleep on a bench and when I woke up you were there, And was I having a nightmare or were you dreaming, Why am I already struggling to remember; I do not call it a violation of my no contact order, rather a violation of the reality my mind has chosen, in which you and all the mistakes that led to you do not exist. I do not remember you Or you never believed I existed, And isn't it all awful, regardless?
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by Lauranna Masters“Addiction,” my psychology professor states, “is an illness, not a failure of an individual.” And I’m thrown down a rabbit hole; Alice on her journey to wonderland. Once again I am arguing with a little white rabbit, named Anxiety, that sits in my occipital lobe Who is always watching me fail He gives me two options to get out of wonderland “Drink me,” he taunts. Telling me that I am trading his company for a bottle of pills I tell him I’d rather the pills than his company “Eat me,” he jeers. Calling me an attention whore I call him a narcissistic ass. “Drink me,” But is this addiction? My desire for the tiny tablets in an orange container The way they make me feel normal and not like my life is defined by a series of highs that could break through any glass ceiling and a series of lows Marianas trench deep in depth. After all, my body struggles through withdrawal when I try to quit them The needle pricks of every touch The vomiting and nausea and headaches and not knowing if I am awake or asleep And if this is all a dream, a hazy memory, or a reality. Is the caterpillar smoking in the corner really there or is it all in my head I crave the quietness that exists once the white rabbit residing in the back of my brain is evicted When I can no longer hear him yelling “off with her head” So maybe I am addicted? “Eat me” Is this my failure as an individual? The way I sought help since Before the little pills in a pretty orange container I was insane, flawed Full of post-shower depression spirals closing my eyes to dream of an eternity of jabberwocks and card soldiers forcing myself to get out of bed because I haven’t eaten for two days simply because the act of making myself a meal is too exhausting, But then I am reminded of the way I laugh with my friends of the way I am able to pour my heart out to strangers on a stage of the way that I pull myself together So did I really need help at all? Am I really just an attention whore? But Alice got it wrong She didn’t have to follow the white rabbit down his hole So I chose path number three where I refuse to make a choice Between how I want to choke on the his poison That I will no longer reside in his wonderland I will no longer humor the rabbit named Anxiety Who dwells beneath my skull I am not an addict, for my drugs are necessary I am not a failure, for I am valid in my illness For Alice, wonderland was just a dream For me, Anxiety is just another nightmare by Kate ArdenContent warning: mentions of suicide Voicemails that have piled up over the past month Hey, it’s me again. you haven’t hit me back in a while. Look, i’m not trying to be rude, but will you be this sad tomorrow? Call me. It is mid afternoon. I watch two episodes of crazy ex girlfriend because usually it makes me feel less alone in my mania, but today I just envy the way her crazy still gets out of bed. If I invite you to brunch next weekend, will you be this sad? What about my bridal shower, will you make grey appear inside my other guests? Listen, I’m not asking just for me. There’s other people in the world, you know. There are more than 3 million cases of depression per year in the US. It requires a medical diagnosis, which of course requires going to the doctor, which requires getting out of bed, which requires… Can I take you out for a night, just to get away from the sadness? I hate it like you do. The sadness, I mean. But I know it’s important to you. You can’t leave the sadness alone too long, just like we can’t leave you alone too long. Is there someone I can call who isn’t tired of this? The sadness, I mean. Everybody’s always asking me how I am. Well, I’m here, so I didn’t off myself, you know? Nobody likes that joke. Nobody liked it when I wrote a song about PTSD to the tune of the YMCA song, either. I don’t know how to talk about this without entertaining. Hey, so I’ve been reading up on this, to see if it’s really as bad as you say it is. Does the sadness respond well to juice cleanses? Have you been to that sunrise pilates class I told you about? I’ll send you some articles I found. Be well, babe. Last year, the suicide rate in America was higher than it’s been in half a century. my doctor asks how often I think about killing myself and I struggle to land on a number that seems normal. Hey, it’s me. I was wondering… Were you this sad last week when we were talking and you were smiling so big it was like watching the moon rise? Are you more sad around me? Do I make it any better? I’m sorry I didn’t pick up. I would say it won’t happen again, but I know you don’t like my jokes. Every day, 2100 people pick up the phone for the last time. I wonder every time I hang up if today is the day I’ll be one of them. Listen, I had an idea. Do you tap your foot so the sadness knows you’re waiting? Do you jingle your keys at it, hover in the doorway? I know that doesn’t always work. Perhaps you could keep the sadness waiting just once. Tell it to stay in the car. Crack a window. Tell it you’ll be out soon. You know, that’s how people can kill their children without meaning to. |
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