One out of every ten people has it, so why why WHY can we still not talk about it?
The Thing stirred I was 14. I think the first stage was just becoming really aware of the seasons. Something about the passing of time. Days getting shorter or the air getting colder or something. That and the amount of time I spent alone. They were prime conditions for its evolution.
"What's the matter? You look sad."
I...don't think anything's the matter. Sad? I do? Why do people keep asking me this? Is The Thing showing? How did it get outside? No, no one's hurting me. No, no I'm doing this to myself. I think that makes it okay.
I always shrugged when I said that. I've always had a knack for minimizing problems. It makes me look like I'm stronger than I am. Probably because if I can convince someone else, I can convince myself.
"I should have been a dancer."
"I always thought I would have been good at that too."
It was just a statement I made as she was leaving and I was facedown on the rug drowning in a puddle of tears and snot. In retrospect, it was probably a cry for help. Not sure.
The night The Thing almost won, she held me and sobbed hysterically. Saying that she should have known, she was my mother. How did she not know.
And I just laid there, staring up at the winter moon and feeling The Thing pressing into my chest. No, momma, you shouldn't have known. I didn't even know.
"It's getting bad again. Might hurt myself. I think I need help."
Text to mom. She understood by now. She had always had some kind of a Thing too.
But I never wanted to hurt myself. Not my body at least, the body was innocent...and besides, I've done enough hurting already. I just wanted to put The Thing down, and if the rest of me had to go with it...collateral damage is collateral damage.
The point is not to make yourself hurt. No one wants to hurt. The point is to rest, finally.
"Do you have anxious thoughts that keep you up at night?"
Well God knows I'm having anxious thoughts right now, Doc. White coat hypertension. I hate that cuff squeezing my arm.
But no, not when I'm trying to sleep. I'm very good at sleeping. Too good at sleeping. Not because it's restful, kind of the opposite. I love the dreams. I don't remember any of the images but I remember the feelings. Burning, white hot anger. Release. Elation. Joy. Ebb and flow. Light and darkness. Fire and purple soup. Imploding and rebuilding.
In my dreams, I'm a phoenix. Then I roll out of bed and I'm so very tired. And I'm not a phoenix anymore, I'm like, a rubber chicken. A rubber chicken with some seriously anxious thoughts.
What are these things I diligently swallow? They tie up The Thing, but they tie me up too. They make the bad feelings stop, but I can handle bad feelings. I've had a lot of practice. I don't want to not feel bad things, I just want to be able to feel good things too. I just want to be a fucking phoenix, okay?
"Just go take care of it."
The Thing requires a lot of maintenance. Three weeks into a new job and I was lying on the bathroom floor, pulling my sweatshirt hood over my eyes, trying to wrangle The Thing so I could get back to work. You don't get sick days for this kind of thing. If you ask for a sick day because you're too "sad" to work, you get fired for not being "mentally tough."
That day, I lost against The Thing. My boss let me "go take care of it."
"I mean, I don't know what's going on, but maybe you should take care of it."
As if I was voluntarily letting The Thing run rampant. These are not the words of a concerned friend. More patronizing than anything.
Do I really deserve to wonder why he chose her over me? She's the TEMPLATE for a basic bitch and I'm awesome, but she doesn't have a Thing hanging around her neck. And three's company.
Please, sir, if The Thing was really everything, why did it take you four years to mention it? You knew. I knew. Everybody knew. Everybody sees and some comment on "that dark thing you have about you." Why did we talk about everything else, but not that?
For the record, I AM "taking care of it." I have been singlehandedly taking down The Thing in private silence, because no one wants to talk about it. No one wants to see. And I have granted you all that privilege.
But if you have made it to the end of this, congratulations. You have now come face-to-face with someone else's dark, dirty Thing and you're still alive. That wasn't so bad, was it? No?
So why are we still not talking about it?
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