I have had trouble writing this post for a month now. In good conscience, failing three times would suggest that I should give up, but nevertheless I persisted. There was something about getting it right that grows addictive. There had to be the right combination of words that opened this perspective and made it accessible to a reader beyond my keyboard. I longed to know what they were, and to give up is to never know. For what it’s worth, that’s still participation sticker material. You tried. Hang that on your fridge and use it as motivation for next time.
The issue is that no matter how I wrote this, it was messy. The self-aggrandizing text sought to create this sympathetic recontextualization of an event that has felt trivial with each passing day, and yet it feels important to witness. Why should every detail of my discomfort be splayed over those pages, outlining the body horror of a strange combination of events? I selfishly ask myself as I listen to Ethel Cain’s “House in Nebraska” through headphones and space out for another night. The echoing fills that hole, allowing peace to form one more night. Breathe in. Try to move beyond the congestion lingering from the COVID-19 case three weeks later. Breathe out and pray that your heart feels pure this time.
It's all I can do as I think back over my September and realize how messy it all was. Why would I allow everything to stumble so spectacularly into a manic depressive state only fueled by the fear of my body rejecting me? It was sore, fatigued, congested. Out of step with the world for 12 days, and 12 days where suddenly not wearing masks was cool. The new cases sheet has yet to reach zero annually globally, and yet we throw caution to the immunocompromised. It’s too hot out. California is going through historic heat waves and droughts in tandem. Hemet is on fire. Brendan Fraser is getting Oscar buzz for playing an obese man as written by a skinny white guy who only made him 600 lbs. in order to create distance from the audience. Everywhere, my body felt like it was rejecting me, and adding dysmorphia on the pile wasn’t helping matters. If I didn’t feel gross from the fever, it was the heat, or possibly self-image.
A scar reminds me of how messy it was to think about those days and try to stay strong, when paranoia overwhelmed me. Was I developing asthmatic symptoms? Would my memory crap out and leave me short of my desired goals? Speaking of, why hadn’t I produced a great short story in over three months? What are you doing with your life? Why are you using COVID-19 as an excuse not to exercise anymore? Enough with the unhealthy coping habits!
I think of my fear of dehydration. I don’t want to deal with the mess of a kidney stone, of having those internal pains that cripple me. I need to not feel “dry.” On top of everything, I didn’t realize that drinking a consistent diet of tea for a month straight, and in excessive amounts, would have such dire impacts. Could that be where the lethargy came from, where I drank tea and felt immersed in a thick viscosity? Maybe that’s where the depression was coming from. The internet had the answers all along, warning me of this fatality. It was an astounding revelation that something so trivial could share the dangers of harder substances. As it stands, cutting back immediately gave me more energy, so that’s saying something.
Again, I try to write this, but it never quite fits a grander narrative. It’s a messy detour on my road to progress. Sure, it meant giving up 17 months of no self-harm, of believing that it was all over. For the past month, I’ve feared relapse but so far it’s been better described as a slip. A slip likely caused from the inner turmoil of a life in physical negotiation and one continually overthinking every moment of every year of their life. How does one not give into the mess they were previously in?
I write this on the one month anniversary where the high emotions got the best of me. It has rained soporifically a few days now and it’s officially jacket weather. I love the goosebumps on the skin from a chill, the peace of a cloudy sky. I feel one with the world around me again and everyone seems to be happy. Yeule sings “Don’t Be So Hard on Your Own Beauty,” and I guess I’ll have to take their advice. The images of petite and delicate beings may still work their intimidation over me, but rebuilding my brain from the mess it was feels like the most important part of the story right now. As much as I wish to achieve it one day, focusing on practical goals is something I can at least hold up next time I’m feeling sad and say “I did this.” I did a lot, and sometimes that’s all I need to get that rush all over again.
In a life where you seek meaning in everything, a relapse can be strange. Maybe it means that you failed. Maybe it means that you had a bad day after 17 months of good ones. It’s all about framing it into something that’s beneficial and not demoralizing. I can breathe again, for now free of the limits I once had. The road to happiness is up ahead. I just need to continue clearing my head to see the path forward. I’m sure the messiness will never go away, but hopefully it will soon become manageable.
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