Wrung out liver

Where do you go with the words you don't have? What do you do when your guts eat you from the inside because you don't know what to say?

I feel like I'm 15 again. I hated 15. I thought I was done with these sick, anxious days that appear out of nowhere. Do I blame my weekend of social drinking and the seven missed doses of antidepressants? It's almost too easy.

When I was 15, my father lost his job, and my future was up in the air. We were talking about moving back to the east side of the state, a place I missed for what I thought it was, not what it really was. I fantasized about what my life would be like if we moved. A new start. New school and friends. No one who knew anything about me. I could be the person I wanted to be, and no one would have any idea what people thought about me at my old school. I would have cooler music, cooler friends, a cooler existence. I would finally live up to my social potential.

This got worse when I talked to a friend over on the east side of the state. Her life was so much cooler than mine. I could be like her if I moved. We could be friends. I would be cool with her.

I tortured myself with these fantasies. When I was taunted for not being Christian enough, not liking the right music, being a lesbian or a slut, I developed poor coping mechanisms. Pain killers. Hair pulling. Cutting. Reckless sex. Stimulants. I wanted to someone else, somewhere else. I know now that life wouldn't have been substantially different 150 miles to the east, but apparently, part of me still believes that it could be.

My weekend of social drinking may have taken its toll in a more emotional way. I met with several women whose lives seem far superior, far more desirable than mine. They're free of the stresses of running a household on this measly income, free of writing the tuition checks, free of the limitations the state legislature places on their families. I know little enough about what their lives are actually like that I think I'd rather be doing what they are than what I am.

Instead, I'm here. I'm afraid to move to Chicago and afraid of what will happen if we stay. I'm afraid of changing and afraid of not changing. I want something else but can't put my finger on it. I'm tired of loss but cannot imagine risking my self to venture away from it. I'm heartsick with what I don't know and heartsick with what I do.

I'm getting a second job and starting therapy. Until then, I have to stop thinking about the inadequacies of my life. I can't write. I can't have a family. I'm a lousy employee. I'm a bad spouse. I can't be a good daughter. I'm not thin or pretty enough. My basement needs to cleaned. If I seem like I'm withdrawing, this is where I am. I'll see you later.