Who says I can’t.
Who says I have to write “can not” instead of “can’t” to be a good writer.
I do. I say.
I say I can write it that way and I say I can live that way.
I don’t say it as much as I think it.
I can’t do this anymore.
I just CAN’T.
Why did you say I don’t need to come here anymore?
What do I have to do to convince you that I really am crazy, I just hide it well.
Perhaps hiding it makes me more crazy.
If you let me go, I may just let go too.
I resent that you said that.
Am I wasting your time?
Am I wasting mine?
I hate myself today just as much as I did the first day I walked in here and sat down in this chair.
If I am so much better now, why do I still self destruct?
Why do I eat and drink so much,
Wake up the next morning, curse myself in the mirror and do it all over again?
It’s almost 1 pm.
There’s a bottle of wine in the cupboard.
I want it.
I have to leave here in 3 ½ hours to come and see you.
I never drink first.
Not because I care about myself,
But because I care about you.
I suppose it would be disrespectful.
And I would be mortified if you smelled alcohol on me and confronted me.
Not to mention drinking and driving.
But shit like that never stops me.
It’s high risk behavior.
Isn’t that why I am here?
I didn’t quite make it the bathroom in time this morning.
I stopped taking them for a while.
But it’s a small price to pay to feel just a little thinner.
I need to get rid of everything I ate and drank last night.
An eating disorder?
But I don’t look like I have one.
Just like I don’t look crazy.
She said she loved me this morning.
I said “Thank You.”
I am not sure I am in love anymore.
I am not quite certain how to love.
The other one called and told me she fell last night and had to 911 for help to get back in her chair.
I felt empty.
I gave my feelings away a long time ago.
I have nothing left to give.
I have half of my life left.
Yet all of my feelings have been used.
Do I sympathize?
I can’t even remember the difference.
Sometimes I watch her from the chair.
My blood boils as she breathes.
She breathes heavily because she is in pain.
It irritates me.
Why so dramatic?
She’s supposed to taking care of me, god dammit.
This is about me.
I have nothing left to give.
I am numb.
She’s watching a comedian on TV.
I had to come to the bedroom to write this.
I can’t listen to a man rant about fat women, crack cocaine and blow jobs.
There is nothing funny about that.
Not to me.
Doesn’t she know that?
Most of my trauma comes from crack pipes and forced sex.
I can feel the anger well up in my throat, the tears behind my eyes.
I want to scream.
But I can’t.
I feel crazy.
But I can’t let it out.
I hate myself.
Who are these women I speak of?
They’ll never know.
I’ll never tell.
People don’t change.
So why am I sitting here?
Why am I on my bed instead of at the table?
Healthy people can laugh when they hear jokes about blow jobs and crack.
So then why I am I here with you?
If I am so healthy why the hell am I here?
Tell me you didn’t mean it.
Tell me I can stay.
Even though I can’t change.
I want to stay.
No one else gets me.
I have no where else to go.