I love to indulge in self-destructive behaviors by scrolling through the “about me” pages on other people’s blogs, instagram, and magical link-post websites just to remind myself of the only accomplishment I have to date, which is living with two different types of depression.
But even as I read through other people’s accomplishments, I think in the back of my head “wow you are such a jem, a stone to be unturned, a diamond in the rough.” And maybe if the time calls for it, an undiscovered geode washed to shore with the indescribable beauty that people use as bookshelf weights to be admired from afar.
For that brief moment, the jem that I am, pats myself dearly on the back and instantly seeks out all the reasons I am plastic at the bottom of a man-made lake stepped on by unwashed children’s feet and buried by oxygen-deprived silt.
I love to talk about “the box.” You know the saying “think outside the box,” but this is the man-made human judgement version of it.
As a woman, I am shoved into it. I am told to be pretty and quiet. To not disagree or argue with people and to practice being a glass doll on the top shelf with cracked cherry-pink lipstick and painted-on spider lashes.
And I am too unruly and go kicking and screaming into the box.
But my larger than average 16-inch shoulders don’t fit, because I missed the margin of 14-inches by the courageous work of my peasant ancestors who passed all their unhappiness onto me for starving too long in Eastern Europe.
Every morning I wake up and look at the Snapchat stories of the only four “friends” I have on there, and think in a morning coffee-sort of way “I want to not exist.”
At this point, it has almost become a routine that I can barely distinguish from breathing. The classical passive suicidal ideation that passes through my prescription medicine like a fish through a hula-hoop.
I always think of how I read years ago that people want to be remembered after they die.
Do I want that?
A Fancy Pen
One of the joys of life is to sit in my fantasy realm where I am successful and have a nice two-door fridge that has the ability to make sundaes and a touch-screen that will tell me in an eerie robotic voice that I need to buy go-yurt.
My beautiful library, full of sunlight and new-book smell, has my own published book on display. And I go sit at my desk, like a Disney villain, and enjoy the feeling of happiness. I guess.
But it feels like those dreams are slipping away from me in the stream of my own mind as I float through the hula-hoop to the lake’s bottom.
The Victorians had something going on
I look at all my unfinished work like a death-obsessed Victorian child. I wonder the day I am to put an end to the hanging details of my character’s lives.
I’m sure the one who fell off a cliff would love an update.