This Mess is a Place.

All around us, there is energy. Ebbing and flowing, expanding and contracting. This energy has the ability to change us, to change everything, depending on what we choose to do with it. The energy in this place…is dark. Gloomy. Almost dead-like. Mountainous piles of clothes hide shadows in the corner. Magazines and catalogues line the side of our bed, books cover the floor. There are boxes of recyclables, bags full of trash, bowls of old orange slices. I am sitting on my bed, room dark, movie playing quietly in the background, ignoring the dense, sickening energy that possesses me. Why is it so hard to keep this place clean for longer than a day? Depression is the beast I place most of the blame on, followed by my mother and how I was raised, and finally my inability to throw things away due to an overwhelming sense of nostalgia and sympathy. When things finally do find their way into Goodwill bags or into the trash, new things take their place. Silly things. Things I didn’t need, but for some reason felt they needed to come home with me. Impulse buys. Here I am, surrounded by mess, and slightly comforted due to old habits, but mostly sickened. There has to be a way to stop myself from this madness. Albert Einstein explained insanity as doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results…well, I suppose I’m insane. I expect this place to stay tidy. I go to sleep every night, literally telling myself that tomorrow I will make a difference…tomorrow everything will be better. Will be clean. The Energy will be bright and joyful, lifted and alive! Nothing will be dark. We will be content and happy. My son will see his mother glow. Every single night I tell myself this, and the next day comes with no avail. “Just change” people say. Like it’s that easy. It should be “that easy”, but it’s not. Not for me. Looking around, I reminisce about how long it has been this way…how bad it had gotten at a point, how far we have come. It’s still not good enough. My place has always been a mess…I can’t explain why. This cannot be passed down to my son as my mom has passed it down to me. I will not allow it. Something’s gotta give. I look around once more, and grimace. How can I make these changes permanent? What do I have to do to stop my impulse purchases of random, useless things? Just stop? If I could do that I would have already right? Perhaps it is just that easy. Perhaps I am weak. Whatever the case, the energy needs to change. My depression can’t handle much more of this, and my son, my dog, and my husband suffer because of it. It’s not fair to them. It’s not fair to me. Right now, I will sleep. There is really nothing else I can do besides rest my aching head and hope that the empty promises I make myself tonight will become fulfilled tomorrow. Hope that change can come that easy. Hope that I will just look harder. Find a key within myself, and turn it. 

The Enemy.

Here I sit, waiting with anticipation. My stomach is turning. My mouth salivates. Waiting is beginning to grow quite annoying. Getting bored, I check my phone. Twiddle my hair. Laugh with my friends. Through all these things, all I can really think about is what’s to come. And then the moment arrives, and my whole body begins to become excited, relaxed, and comforted all at the same time. The food has arrived. As they set my plate in front of me, I react by speaking with a kind thanks and placing my napkin on my lap. “I am about to annihilate you” I think randomly, almost unaware that it even crossed my mind. But it’s true. Polite bites of course, nothing to ostentatious. Although, if I were alone, manners would be thrown to the wind and I would literally tear those leftovers apart. But that’s later. Right now, I am stuck in the moment. The first bite enters my mouth, and I am surrounded by such a warm, comforting feeling. A nice bath of feelings, memories, and emotions. It gets better with each bite. As the meal goes on, I go from hungry to satisfied. From satisfied to full. From full to stuffed. I cannot seem to get enough. And of course, there is always room for chocolate cake. Always. After the meal, I am happy. Fulfilled. Endorphines flowing; quota filled. It is like a drug. But then, as I start to crash, and my stomach begins to really digest, the guilt is beginning to set in. I feel gross. Fat. Sick. At the time I didn’t care, and I knew this would happen, but like an addict, I want the high. The warmth. The fulfillment. The aftermath is painful. I am disgusting now. I want to throw up that cake…why did I have to order the cake? I didn’t need it…I didn’t really even want it. I ordered it because I could. To make this high last. And now, I pay for it. My husband tells me I’m beautiful, and kisses my forehead. I am staring at the ground. A fake smile spreads across my face. How am I supposed to love all these people so damn much when I hate myself. I hate my addiction. My body is supposed to be this beautiful tool that takes me places. That I love and want to look at and take care of. All I do is feed it garbage. Garbage. This isn’t right is it? And the same old story…everyday…it’s alright. Tomorrow it will be better. I will start eating right. I will exercise. I will take the dogs out. I will do something. …And it never happens. Which, of course, makes it worse. So by now, the depression has set in. I want to sleep. No exercise for me. No working off that sinful slice of nostalgia and regret. Just sleep. Let it turn into more fat. Let it make it harder for me to ever change. And just try and not think about it to hard, that’s the kicker. Try not to think about it. Try not to think about how I grew up like this. My mom stuffing it in…slowly raising her children with the same emotional eating problems as her own. Slowly morphing her kids into little hungry monsters. She herself is a big woman who eats what she wants when she wants to eat it. A woman who hates herself, and hates living in her own skin, and won’t do anything about it. I don’t want to be her, but I am. I want this cake out of my body. I want to be thin and beautiful. Sitting here…closing my eyes…food digesting…thoughts racing…I am vain. I’d like to be desired and wanted. I’d like my husband to know that men want me and that they could never have me. I want him to experience the same satisfaction I do when I see women looking at him. I want to be fucking gorgeous. So, let’s add that thought onto the growing pile of comprehension that add to the ever expanding depression lodged in my being. My high is gone. My guilt is here. And the cycle will repeat. How do I break this? How do I break free from myself? Perhaps I need rehab. Perhaps I need something stronger. I don’t know. All I know is that now, I must sleep. Because if I think to much more, I will explode. Hopefully no dreams tonight. Hopefully tomorrow will be different.
Hopefully.

The Beginning is the End is the Beginning.

Suddlenly, an explosion occurs. Not the kind you’d expect, but a sickening, rippling sound ringing throughout. I close my eyes. This is the end. Finally, it has come for me, to take me away. Perhaps I smile, perhaps I cry. Whatever happens, I’m to late to find out because there a loud popping noise and then nothing but black. And peace. Simplicity.

And then I am thrust back into reality, waking, almost gasping for breath. I turn, there’s my son sleeping on his back. Placid and picturesque, as beautiful as he always has been, and always will be. Next to him, my husband. Dead asleep, to wake him would be to move a mountain. I can’t help but stroke his hair quickly, a kind of automatic comfort. At my feet, our dog Toby, curled into his ball form. For a moment he sat up alert and stared at me, realized everything was alright, and laid his head back down, his protective instincts still on standby in case he is called upon for action. Surrounded by the people who mean more to me that anything, the people I love more than I can ever comprehend, and I feel so dreadfully alone. My hands are lightly shaking, and the dream in which caused me to awaken is still fresh in my mind, bouncing around like one of those silver balls in those pin ball machines we used to play with once upon a time. Knowing I haven’t smoked in almost three years, I am now dying for a cigarette. What could it mean? I’ve had quite a few of these dreams, slightly different but all ending the same way, all equally as intimidating as the last. People blame it on anxiety, which could be true, blame it on depression, which could also be true. I feel something deeper, more primal at work.
What. Could. It. Mean.
I sit up, to awake to sleep any longer, and turn on the TV. It’s an embarrassing solution, but being a bit worked up and knowing wild horses couldn’t wake Sir husband up to help sooth these untamable jitters, it was all I had. Images flash through my sleepy eyes. Forgotten late night shows, some movies, a few cartoons, commercials. The dream in which woke me in such suspense I literally thought this moment was the last moment in this earthly reality is slowly fading into the background. And soon, I am tired again. My eyes can no longer bear the weight of my sleep that is soon to come, and they close. No more dreams. No more explosions. Nothing but uninterrupted slumber.

But deep in the back of my subconscious, it lingers. It dances there softly, waiting to return when it’s ready (or when I’m ready). It will be back, I feel it, like a cold chill on the back of your neck causing your hair to prickle and your stomach to unhinge for a second. Pure unease. Until next time dream, I will be waiting. Always waiting.

To see how it ends.