The Ink of It.

I wrote this in my work notebook during a writing exercise in class. I think it shows my disintegration into something. The self-talk gets desperate as I tried to keep it together. 

September 4, 2014

I got sick last night. I hope I can get through this day. Standing is difficult. I need to be better to Josh. I’m so often frantic or sick. 

I want to know when. Spontaneous is nice but only if it’s extra. Oh. I can focus on so few things at once. The house is slipping completely. I’m always behind with work. I want to sleep and to go, move, find new bodies of water. Splash. Meditate on water. I feel like a slightly different person. Is this a phase, or it this me under the layers of cycling and sickness? I loved swimming as a child, so maybe I pushed it away. 

I have not felt well. Yesterday, I became exhausted and unfocused during a conference call, tapping my fists on the table without meaning to. Bruce said that I looked like I was crumbling and running out of time to be human. Today, I’m worn out, and my limbs have a low, sickly electricity. I need the day to end. I need the drive home. I need help. I’ve been feeling kind of angry—not about anything or toward anyone in particular. Music helped a little. 

I feel a little like I may not handle this class. Like I may fall and turn into a million twisted paperclips with a crash. 

Oh. I’m hurting too. I need…help. And more water. And a chair. 

Halfway. Eating didn’t help with the weakness. Help. Sun. Water streaming down my back. Water in my shoes, on my wrist. Kisses in excess. Like stitches. Out of these clothes. Quiet! And for that engine to leave my body and my water bottle. And a hand that does not shake. And tiny metal beads in a bucket with a little water—sink up to my knees. An open mouth. The. Slip tissue. Something that wiggles and isn’t gross. Banana candy that invades the sinuses.