Adjusting V

V

My dad visits and picks up the burdens of homemaker that I cast into a corner, collecting dust. He does the litter boxes and has dinner waiting for me after work, even though I only eat for a few days. He does not complain. He says I owe you Randa. and I do not dispute, even though I have been doing a sub par job of tending to the houses and animals. I think we both know my moving here was hard enough. My mornings are happy, they have always been the best part of my days. I go adventuring with Brooklyn along the freight train tracks and practice my songs. I feed the cats, I play with the guinea pig, I take photographs. This morning he is enthusiastic about setting up a dark room for me but I am not in the mood. I am sad because he will be leaving soon for New York City and I cant go home with him. We say this is my home now, but nothing will ease the pain of every memory of roof tops and riding between the cars of the 7 train, smoking a cigarette, feeling like flying. Nothing will ease the pain of knowing I can't go back home again. I eat the Papaya King hot dogs he bought for me and try not to cry. I drink the wine he bought and try to justify tonight. It was a good night overall. I made quota on a difficult turf, but like always it is still not enough. I could have done more. The words I just hate myself, I don't even hate Rick Santorum as much as I hate myself. echoed in my head between every house tonight. I think I forgot to flush after I puked at staff night yesterday and it's haunting me that everyone may know I'm bulimic, anorexic and absolutely pathetic, or worse, that they talked about it after I left. I was way to drunk yesterday night. And its funny, because the sheer fact of them knowing doesn't bother me much, just that they may think I do such things to myself to look “pretty” or “thin”. So the words I just fucking hate myself, I don't even hate Rick Santorum as much as I hate myself. echoed in my head, ready for fire in case one of them brought it up. Just so they know that I understand my puke spewing, diet pill popping habits are far from attractive, that I realize they make me look like Skelletor and freak people out ta-boot. Its just an efficient way to take my anger out, and keep people at a far enough distance to feel safe.

When I'm leaving the office I say goodnight. I don't always. I usually prefer to slip out unnoticed, unseen, but tonight I am lonely and homesick, and am craving some sort of acknowledgment. [I] meets me as I'm walking out the lobby doors. He is the only other New Yorker in the office and I'm embarrassed to admit it, but his company is one of the most comforting parts of my days. My favorite NYC band is in town and I'm debating going. I ask him where his bus stops though I'm vaguely sure its akin to the P1 which I'd need to get to the venue. He says on Liberty Ave., the bus I need to get home stops on Wood St. I consider asking him to go with me to the concert but am to tired and to sad. I tell him about the concert I've decided I'm not going to instead and we part our separate ways. According to our conversation I'll be smoking a joint and playing guitar tonight, which will be true after this next glass of wine. My depression deepens on the the hour long bus ride home. I just hate myself, I don't even hate Rick Santorum as much as I hate myself. My mind repeats and I can't make it stop. Not one song on my iPhone is comforting. When I arrive home, with cigarettes on my breath, my dad is already in bed. He talks to me sleepily how was your night? Then I pour myself a glass of wine and collapse to my knees on the kitchen floor. Brooklyn licks my face and nuzzles my hair. I wrap him up in a puppy hug and almost cry. Then Sabina flicks a cinnamon container to the floor. She's jealous, for until recently she was my only pet, or as I say, my original fuzz-nugget. I wrap her up into a hug too, then begin to write.

All the while I imagine someone watching me from the dog gate. Someone witness to the nightly routine I hide with my jokes and laughter. Someone witness to the things I'm to much of a coward to tell to the people who matter.