The mailbox was overflowing. There were twelve envelopes. One of them from one of my best friends, a singing card for my birthday. I opened it and shut it right away. I didn’t want to hear a cheery tune. Singing cards are so annoyingly happy with their goofy cheer. But I had to keep it open long enough to read what she wrote on the inside. I read it, and closed it before the song had time to finish, “I’ll be there…just call my name and I’ll be there…”
I tossed the card across the kitchen. Stupid card with its stupid lyrics and false promises. I came home to an empty house and eleven envelopes and one singing card. I retrieved the card and opened it again. And closed it. And opened it. And closed it. The feeling of being alone was growing stronger because no one is here, and no one that I want to call can actually be “there.”
Hunger never made a presence yesterday and has not appeared today either. I brought the scale back up from the basement last night, and waited until this afternoon to step on it. It was the afternoon because I slept until 12:30. Then I broke a coffee maker, the 5th one in less than a year. My entire plan for the day dissolved because of the inability to make coffee. I didn’t care about any of this. I didn’t freak out when I stepped on the scale. Whatever the number is, I can fix it. I stepped off the scale. That is fine. I can fix this. It’s not nearly as bad as I prepared myself for. I didn’t panic when I could no longer make coffee. It figures, it just figures. It doesn’t matter. Somehow the coffee maker not working makes me feel like I am failing at adulthood. As if the universe is saying; stop trying to be productive, nothing you’re doing is working for you.
I opened the card again and let it play until it ended. It doesn’t even play the whole chorus. The words sting and I stare at the card which has stopped being cheery. I want to run back to my car and drive anywhere. I want to get lost in the streets of a big city and ride the metro like I’m going somewhere, even though I’m going nowhere.
Nothing is happening. I am not hungry and I don’t feel anything. I’m not happy or sad, but vacant. I want to ditch my morals and smoke a cigarette with a complete stranger while having a conversation that somehow makes me feel alive. Trying to be in “recovery” –whatever the fuck that means–nor behaving as if I have a real eating disorder is getting me anywhere. I feel like a failure in both senses–I cannot keep any of my goals. My promises dissolve before my eyes and I can’t tell anyone because it’s such a disappointment.
I have no real resolutions and I have no idea where I’m going. The only thing that makes sense is that I’m not hungry. That makes sense. Yes, a lot of sense, even though the idea of that making sense to most everyone else doesn’t make any sense at all.