Clutching Coffee
I am beginning to suspect that the crutch of the mentally disordered being prone to an artistic bent is due to the over reliance on metaphor to describe internal states. The attempt at putting the internal into words is so easily hijacked by creativity that one’s mind quickly becomes a catalogue of daily adventures.
As my tooth throbs, I see it sitting on my gumline as large as a pumpkin, pushing the other teeth aside, and its razor-like roots thrash away below the gumline to spite its own existence.
I sit down at the kitchen table sipping my coffee, lost in the morning fog, and waiting for the caffeine to smoke out my sense of self, who I’ve been told is the one to help me get through the day.
I have been re-living a moment from my teenage years for the last hour with no contemporary oversight and attempting to envision different outcomes from the event. It’s like I have wandered into this room willingly, but I cannot now leave it until I solve a puzzle that does not and should not exist.
This last metaphor, the idea of being stuck in a room, is common, especially in the morning if I have had a vivid dream about a past love. The full weight of forgotten emotion will be pressed into the room with me, refusing to budge, forcing me to reconcile how I could have possibly moved on.
“You had to move on,” I hear myself say.
“Why?”
“Because if you still felt like this every day you would have ceased to function. Just like you have ceased to function now.”
The walls dissolve around me and a sense of years ago returns to bathe the old memories. The room has released me along with the rules of how I am expected to think and feel within its confines.
A few breaths later and I’m in a different room and I begin texting people with things I’d like them to know in case of my imminent death.
The rules have changed.
I apparently have gratitude that I wish to unload on a few friends who I have decided helped me during pivotal moments in my life. However, there are only three out of fifty six people that I believe should have this gratitude.
Lucy, I have since come to realize during our time in high school that I had undiagnosed mental issues, and the reason that time sucked so badly for me was because I was not getting the help I needed. I often recall a time when I was particularly low, and out of all of our classmates, you alone seemed to recognize this, and you asked if I was okay. That meant a lot to me.
Sammy, you knew I was eating your food in the student dorms, but never said anything. I was broke at the time, so thank you.
I just wanted to thank you, Robin, for covering for me at work all those years ago. I was going through some things and just couldn’t stand to be around people, but thanks for not reporting me while I worked through it.
I sent the last text and stood my phone up next to the marmalade.
When the rooms are gone, I can focus on reality and the sensory information that comes with it. Too much sensory information can drive me back into the rooms again, which is why I always have resting autistic face when I’m at work; the light is on, but nobody’s home.
Too busy solving a riddle with rules that I have imposed on myself.
After years of this, I have wondered if the presence of this seemingly endless number of rooms is representative of a seemingly endless number of unresolved issues, or if my brain is simply creating a space for me to retreat independent of any convenience considerations.
The passage of time isn’t enough to get me out of the room; I have to do something while I’m in there.
My phone buzzes and falls over.
You stole my food! I thought it was Jeff. In fact, I asked you who you thought it was and you told me it was Jeff!
Why had I ruminated on the need to share gratitude and then coupled it with my fear of dying? I wanted to share gratitude and instead I created a confessional.
Who am I kidding? My sense of self isn’t showing up. Look at all the shit he’d have to deal with.
The Prozac tumbles down with the rest of the coffee and I wonder if I was somehow made inside out.
You still owe me for that shift, you bastard.
I truly am gifted at helping other people remember.
A book of Sontag’s essays is still sitting unopened on the table. I slide it over and begin to read, feeling her warm heady voice pulling my brain back together. The balm is overwhelming and I realize how much I need this.
The phone buzzes and Lucy’s number isn’t Lucy’s anymore.
The rules have changed.