Their prompt for me was:
"Things take time"
I apologize for the rather depressing tone that my entries have had these days, it's just how I'm feeling and it always radiates to my writing. It should be said, though, that I have been very happy for the past few days =)
Things take time
I wake up to the vibration of my phone; the alarm doesn’t even have time to go off before I grab my phone from the desk, unfledged and undecided, staggering in the semi-darkness portrayed by my tired eyes. I’ve gotten used to the emotional anvil that settles upon my ribcage after the early hours of the morning when my dreams become dark and my body goes to defense mode, ready and at the same time not for the day to come. I open my door and find her shoes sprinkled carelessly on the carpet and without going inside her room I know she’s staying home again. The lights hurt my eyes as I wash my face in the sink, too tired to go nag her about how unclean it is. My eyelids are so swollen that if you put a needle in something would have to come seeping out — it’s as though last night’s tears never rolled down my cheeks but shrunk and stayed there instead, soothing away the unwanted things I have seen, the monstrous infidelities of the way my life was supposed to continue, or the way that it, overall, was supposed to start.
I listen in my room while she drags herself to the bathroom, eyes at her ever-sinking bowl, an eternity of disgusting, thick fluid escaping through her teeth staring back at her, starved and angry. She turns the tap on so I don’t hear. But I wish it were the only sound in my ears, not the steps, not the tap, not the long, sharp fingernails on the plastic, not the same song on repeat from her computer once she lies back down…
The walls comfort me by leaning in as I lay my head against the cold metal headboard of my bed, my insides curling into a slow and agonizing false-death, making me coil up against my blankets and pillows like a snake. They said she needed a lower low-point. They said I wasn’t the parent. They said that I should live, while giving me new meds to help my sleep. They said things like this take time.
I cut myself with a needle, yearning for a knife, the pain giving me more energy than breakfast. It’s all I need to survive another day. They give me no alternative, so I blame it on them, rejoicing in my tiny clamshell of a heart as I watch a part of me seep away.