Maybe it was the way each time I cried I ended up hysterically laughing.
Maybe it was how we kissed in front of terminal 2.
Maybe it was my carry on. Everyone else had purses and bags. I had my record player.
I think it was my mom. I told her what was happening to me. And she did nothing. She said "well if it's that bad, we should probably get you to the hospital." It was that bad. I had it all planned out. It was all I could think about. But she didn't take me to the hospital, she just left.
Maybe it was the low paid psychiatrist.
Maybe it was the plethera overweight girls.
Maybe it was the dress code.
Maybe it was the online shopping.
I think it was my birthday. The random presents left on my pillow. How the 4 people took me to dinner because they felt bad for me. Or maybe they were paid to do so. I don't like pity. I don't like being a burden. Or how for the first time in my life, every single one of my nine siblings called or texted to say "Happy Birthday, hang in there, things aren't as bad as you think." And when anyone asked how I was doing, all I could think to say was: "It's my fucking birthday." But I can't say that to my professor. So I'm silent.
Maybe it was the absence of food.
Maybe it was how my sister told me she didn't want to talk to me anymore.
Maybe it was the extra furniture piled up in my room.
Maybe it was how everything was worse than I thought it would be.
I think it was that Skype call. I fell asleep talking to you, which I like to do because then I don't cry myself to sleep. I never used to cry. Now I do. But I opened my eyes to look at you on my dimmed laptop screen, and you were crying. Big tears. And my heart broke a little bit.
Maybe it's the amount of sex offenders in this town.
Maybe it's how my roommates are afraid of me.
Maybe it's how I haven't gone to church yet.
Maybe it's the Breakfast Club poster hanging in my room.
I think it's how I don't belong here.
Maybe it was the plethera overweight girls.
Maybe it was the dress code.
Maybe it was the online shopping.
I think it was my birthday. The random presents left on my pillow. How the 4 people took me to dinner because they felt bad for me. Or maybe they were paid to do so. I don't like pity. I don't like being a burden. Or how for the first time in my life, every single one of my nine siblings called or texted to say "Happy Birthday, hang in there, things aren't as bad as you think." And when anyone asked how I was doing, all I could think to say was: "It's my fucking birthday." But I can't say that to my professor. So I'm silent.
Maybe it was the absence of food.
Maybe it was how my sister told me she didn't want to talk to me anymore.
Maybe it was the extra furniture piled up in my room.
Maybe it was how everything was worse than I thought it would be.
I think it was that Skype call. I fell asleep talking to you, which I like to do because then I don't cry myself to sleep. I never used to cry. Now I do. But I opened my eyes to look at you on my dimmed laptop screen, and you were crying. Big tears. And my heart broke a little bit.
Maybe it's the amount of sex offenders in this town.
Maybe it's how my roommates are afraid of me.
Maybe it's how I haven't gone to church yet.
Maybe it's the Breakfast Club poster hanging in my room.
I think it's how I don't belong here.
[speechless...]
ReplyDeleteSounds like you're having fun at college.
ReplyDeleteToo good. Too real. Too random. Too honest.
ReplyDeleteYou're one of my favorite writers, even though I'm always scared/embarrassed/worried/intimidated whenever I read your writing. You're gonna say something bad, something about sex, something I shouldn't be reading, you're gonna drop an F bomb, something about suicide, maybe I should notify the authorities, get you some help, save you from yourself.
But instead I just get inspired and tell you how much I like your writing.
Just kidding. I'm going to copy/paste this to your most recent post. My bad.
ReplyDelete