surviving october

this is not a love letter or a listicle

You know it’s getting bad again when you start feeling like an island. Inventing new sentences to weave into conversations, I let the sadness dissolve under my tongue to keep it from seeping through. Fear of missing out, the engine oil that keeps most of my intentions running, is now fear of getting up. I wish I had somebody to let down; the only disappointment I can afford is my own. Not numb to any of it — there’s only so much avoidance a lady can swallow — I’ve never been more present. And does it matter if it’s a spiral or a pattern if it all ends up down the same drain?

Part of me wishes it would continue to get worse: I’m curious to see what happens if I let the wounds marinate, swapping self-improvement for a good old biblical meltdown, deflating one body part at a time, waiting for little Margaret Qualley to claw her way out of my spine. A poet makes no sound, but at least I’d have excuses for days then. Dear so and so, I’m sorry I can’t do dinner this week. I’m sorry the speed of my replies has exceeded all appropriate timeframes. I’m sorry I can’t call back, you talk too much about things and people for me to bear. I’m sorry I stopped being a good person two and a half weeks ago, both by choice and circumstance. I’m sorry for not being sorry at all. Yet you’d never guess I’m unwell, because I’ll still do my laundry and go to work and bake an apple pie for a friend who’s been asking me to. Maybe I’m too high-functioning for a rock bottom touchpoint, drunk on neuroticism, the eldest daughter syndrome comes into play or whatever else they’re going to diagnose me with, but being casually useful is the only thing that gives me any resemblance of meaning, plus I’m too ego-stuck to admit I’ve resorted to small wins. Achievement goes out the window with unabashed force, now an afterthought. At your service at all costs. I keep hoping I’ll finally lose my appetite — at least all of this pacing and reeling would yield wanted results. I’m back in therapy just to be able to say that I am, not because I believe in what it can do for me. Way to go, October, thank you.

I keep to myself. Going quiet is the lowest effort strategy for a reason: cheap, effective, no movement required. I’m off Instagram for the most part, trying to create a space free of all that instant gratification. I can keep lying all I want, but the dirty little secret will be exposed eventually: I write for pleasure, live for praise. I guess it’s what I signed up for when I started commodifying vulnerability — bed’s made, now sleep in it. Serve me likes and comments through a feeding tube, pretty please, or an IV drip if you’re brave enough. Your quota for validation has been reached this month, put the pen down. What will be for you to read later is for my pillows to witness first.