Thursday, July 30, 2009

It is 5:00 AM on a Thursday morning in late July.
I am typing this from the toilet seat, trying my damnedest to ignore that fact.
Even though I grew up with a brother who is all too ready to share things like this,
and I really don't care if I can hear other people doing it-
which I can, with the walls in this house-
because it's natural,
I'd still like to pretend the toilet is just a white, shiny novelty to me.

I woke up in the dark, with the fan off, and the TV playing a brightly colored infomercial.
What I first feel is my stomach burning, and I clamber out of bed to unplug the laptop cord
and plug in the lamp.
It's too complicated though, and I realize I can turn the overhead light on with a flick of the switch.
Then I grab the laptop and dash down the hall and into the bathroom.

I can see some people grabbing the laptop in a planned way, with business or entertainment to occupy their time in the commode.
Mostly, I grabbed the laptop anxiously.
I set it on the counter and feel a wave of anxiety sweep over me as my bowels do rather unmentionable things-
at least in polite company.
The wave breaks over my skin in a rush of heat and sweat.
It settles in my head, setting into cartwheels perfectly stationary things.

After a few minutes, I'm leaving again, too stressed to stay in a rather nice bathroom.
I go back to my bed, take two Imodium, and look around on the laptop.
Not ten minutes later, I'm taking another Imodium and a Xanax, a cup of water, and the laptop with me into the bathroom.
This time it feels a little more planned.
Sitting down, I chug water and the pills.
Yet again, instead of occupying myself with the laptop,
it sits on the sinks edge while I play around with a string inside my pyjama pants.
I admonish myself for eating ice cream last night, and thank whatever divine being that it's not worse.

This is the part I wouldn't tell a therapist if they asked.
The part where I get panic attacks in the bathroom, let alone actually facing the world.
But at five in the morning, my anxiety is what I'm afraid of.
It feels like a wild beast that might tear me apart if I'm not careful.
And I try, but it's temperamental, and foreign to me,
so it goes off sometimes without warning,
and I am stuck along for the ride, just a little bit terrified,
aware this thing is inside of me and that I am it's home.
If you can't escape yourself, you certainly can't escape whats inside you, either.

I leave the bathroom to the gurgling sounds of my stomach,
hoping I won't be making a third trip to the bathroom tonight.
I can only handle one epiphany a day, so another trip would really be a waste of my time.
I hope my colon gets the message.

Thursday, July 9, 2009

It's an awful, ever present sense of despair.
It manifests in the throat and the chest,
feels like drowning.
Lends itself to shuddering breath,
like the wind has just been knocked out of you.
Keeps eyes open late into the night,
minds endlessly reeling with regrets and apologies
and self-deluding, self-sustaining hopes.
And in the one moment when it's all taken as it as,
as a constant burden and {a hundred, thousand} flights of fancy,
the static settled in the temples increases;
jaws lock and eyes well,
and it is so honestly not a way of life to ever be wished on anyone.

© Copyright 2009 Abby Almon

Sunday, July 5, 2009

The Downfalls of Red Flash Drives

I started writing something the 26th. I was really excited about it, and I saved it on my flash drive. I opened it a couple days later on my cousin's lap top, and everything was fine. But, I tried opening it yesterday, twice on the computer, and once on the laptop, and it's gone. The first time I opened it on the computer, it came up as crazy symbol letters; then, I tried the laptop, and it came up blank. I went back to the computer, and opened it, and it shows as a row of squares. I'm a little bit devastated because I've no idea how to get it back, and I was kind of in love with what I had written. The first part had been based on a dream I had just woken up from, so I fear I won't be able to write it so nicely again. I am still hoping for someone to come up with a way for me to recover my writing. I just figured I'd make a post, as I feel bad about neglecting Blogger so. Cross your fingers for me.