I am not OK. Maybe it’s because
I kicked off the week listening to Loretta Lynn sing “Wine into Water” on a
Monday morning. Maybe it’s the
recovery. I find myself obsessing over
every pull and pinch in my gut. I watch
the glue on my skin soften and pill.
When I lie flat my muscles flutter. When I close my eyes I see the
inches of tube being pulled out of my body, and I feel it happen all over
again. I inspect the hole it came out of
every day to make sure it’s still closing.
To see if it has gotten blacker.
I once knew a woman with Body Dysmorphic Disorder. -- This is not
anorexia, and beyond counting celery sticks. When she looked in the mirror she
saw holes in her face. Some days it was horror movie terrifying. Other days she
just stood quietly caking makeup on her cheeks as if she were filling in a
fender with bondo. And it all started
for her after having her wisdom teeth taken out.
Maybe this is happening to me.
Or maybe it’s something else altogether. Maybe it’s this 250 pound boulder sitting on
my chest, pushing me down, taking my breath, stealing my joy. Reminding me I will never be settled. That
there will always be unease, and uncertainty, and the burden of digging out
into the light-in an endless cycle of anxieties and release. A new crisis strapped to my back, a new
neurosis, another hole to close.
I cried myself to sleep last night.
And then I didn’t sleep at all. I am not OK.
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