V is for VI-Xen
The day you stop writing is the day a boy tells you he likes that you are grounded. And you aren’t. And you weren’t. But you want to be. You want so badly to be that you lock up the words from before, the words that told the truth of who you are, of what you fear, of all that you want but can never have, you shield them from the eyes that will never even bother to look for them and you pretend that you were never like that. You were always grounded. You think about deleting them until you realize it would be a bit like killing a part of yourself. There was a time where you wouldn’t have hesitated.
The day you realize that it’s not about a boy at all is the day your friends tell you that he is bad. That he is no good, uncommitted, hurting you, hurting them to see you hurt. But it’s you doing the hurting. You realize you like this one because he reminds you of the person you once were, the person you have been so desperately trying to get back to, the person you wonder ever really existed. This version of you that you see in him, she was severe and practical and harsh. She saw the world for how it was and didn’t cry at the truths she couldn’t stand. She was smart and she knew it. She was bold and unapologetic and wore only black. She never thought about the things you do now, the fat you’ve gained, the drugs you need, the pain you feel. She had a purpose. She had a future. She was a winner. She was the best. The day you realize how far you’ve strayed isn’t the day you can’t get yourself to study, or the day you can’t play that piece anymore, or the day you don’t speak a word. It’s the day you open your closet and realize that the shirts you reach for are always white. You wonder if you’re some new kind of narcissist. You wonder if being a real narcissist would fix most of your problems. Probably. You realize that you don’t care so much that he doesn’t text back, but you care that she would not like you either. You are not the best version of yourself, and there is no way back.
The day you decide to try and get your shit together is not a day at all. It is the middle of the night, both seasons of Fleabag endlessly running on the screen, an entire pint of ice cream in your body, an entire pint you couldn’t stop eating even though the sugar tasted of guilt and sadness. You figure it’s a closed loop - doing it because you hate yourself and hating yourself for doing it. You wish for anorexia because your body doesn’t let you try bulimia, and you realize you’d probably be an alcoholic too if your body experienced drunk-ness the way everyone else does. But your body doesn’t let you stop eating either. And maybe it’s for the best, so you wish instead that one day you can bear to look in the mirror. You still can’t, but you decide to fake it ‘til you make it. You make a list of things to do, of things you want, and of all of the things you do not need. You say that you will stick to this plan, even though you know you are not consistent. And when you say you are not consistent, it is not the kind of inconsistent other people think. No, it’s the way you die every night, not knowing who you’ll be the next morning. You pray for the good ones. You hope they’ll stick around.
The day you feel like yourself is at your friend’s birthday party. You straighten your hair. You put on your makeup. You look in the mirror and you like what you see. You talk and you laugh and you have control. You send away the random people trying to join a dinner they were not invited to, you get the friend stuck in the line up to the bar, you scare off the creepy men at the table. You have the kind of posture your mother always wanted you to have. You are the Wags to her Axe, you have a great night, you take a mirror selfie. A boy in your building talks to you in the elevator on your way back. You do not get his name. And when you get home, you wash your face and put in your retainer, because you are a person worth taking care of. But this doesn’t last. It never does. The next day, your friend drops by to grab the airpods you found and you gossip about the drama of someone else. He says that he thinks she is lonely. You say who isn’t? He asks if you want to talk. There’s nothing to say.
The day you finally start applying to jobs is the day you realize all of your breakdowns happen at the office. Something about the limitations on what you can do, or the lack of purpose, or the dreary floor plan. Something about the time you have to think, the way that you think, the fact that you don’t care for the work you’re supposed to be doing. Something about the fact that being around people you do not care about and cannot really talk to makes you feel even more alone than when you’re at home. You stare at the screens and listen to the girl on your left talk for five minutes about how one tea is better than the other because it’s just slightly sweeter. You turn to watch the girl on your right edit a powerpoint for a project that does not matter. You imagine being able to walk through walls so you can stroll through the windows and hit the ground from the 24th floor. But instead, you go downstairs to cry, because what if it’s you? You didn’t have intern friends way back when either. But you remember that you still talk to your old manager, that you were friends with the PMs. You realize that it is you, but in the way that you are not in the right place. You decide you want to get there.
The day you start writing again is the day you try explaining your volatility to a friend. And he makes a goddamn finance joke. You go home and nap and dream of acid trips. You delete the messages and delete the boy’s contact. You do not need them anymore. You text friends you haven’t seen in a while. You decide to get an iPad. You start reading about your potential new jobs, doing crosswords, zapping your brain. You know how this goes. You know this won’t last. But at least you’re trying. At least you’re writing again. At least you’re alive.