About Me

I find it hard to describe myself using more than a few words, a few drops of ink spilled on the page that waste little and leave enough blank space for more important endeavors.  I guess this tells you I’m poetic, because we’re only one paragraph in and I’ve already personified myself.

I call myself ink, yet I’m more like paper: faceless, malleable, and ruined by mistakes.  My creases will never smooth, and tape will only close the millions of tiny rips scattered along my edges.  The fibers of my skin will never reconnect entirely.

Thank goodness you have the power to paint me, to bury those flaws under any color you please.  I prefer blue and purple, myself, but I cannot let you know that.  What if your favorite color is green?  I guess this means I’m insecure, as well.  I’m so sorry.

I also enjoy painting and drawing.  I look for excuses to stick my brushes in ink.  I sometimes paint upon myself, but only when you can’t see.  I wouldn’t want you to think I’m improper or indecent.  I know how indecent I can be, which I why I only paint myself behind closed doors.  I don’t want to show myself as anything less than your favorite color.

I stick to my word.  I never break a promise, and I hardly ever lie.  I stick to my word because you write it, along with my promises.  It would be a lie to say I don’t have trouble remaining smooth and white after you have taken your pen to me.  Sometimes, you press down too hard and it hurts.

I should stop personifying, now.  I can tell you find this senseless creativity obnoxious, and would rather I get to the point:

I live to please others.  I used to do things to please myself, and I became a monster.  Now, I am honest, punctual, and as perfect as I can be.  I believe that the best way to correct oneself is through punishment, meted by a set of strict guidelines.

I follow my guidelines to a T.

I think I like bizarre things.  I am somehow drawn to the macabre and the surreal, the things that keep most children awake at night.  The creatures in my head come out in my drawings, and in the way I dance.  Feel free to question these interests, for they could be my narcissism begging for attention.

I think I’m politically liberal, because my thoughts run more closely to that platform when I am left to think alone.  Maybe propaganda has taken over my brain.

I think I have a sense of wit that some would find humorous, but when I try to tell a joke, blank stares and quizzical expressions meet me.  I cannot laugh at the jokes of others – insulting others and mimicking bodily functions is not funny, at least not to me.

Excess Calories disturb me, in both diet and in word.  I don’t think I enjoy sugar-coated tales.  If anything, I don’t like stories that make people feel better about themselves for no reason.  I apply the same philosophy to myself, for I, too, am human:

  • Those people are not teasing me out of jealousy. They truly hate me.
  • My own incapacity caused me not to get the job.  The employer saw right through my façade.
  • Yes, others do care if my thighs touch, if I have stretch marks, and if my breasts are too large. It’s evolution.  It’s science.  I am disgusting.
  • It’s no secret people watch me when I eat. I know they think I shouldn’t eat so much: it will ruin me.

I wish I could say more, but I don’t know what else to write.  I am too preoccupied with all I have wasted: Your time, your space, your ink.

 

 

 

The Anxiety ABCs

A is for Anxiety, the subject of this list.

B is for the Blanket that gets wadded in my fist.  Crap, crap.  I’m regressing one-thirteenth of the way in.

C is for the Counselors, who could not tell what was wrong.  She said it was all in my head, and another one really thought I was faking it to “look cool.”

D is for Doctor, and her circled nurses’ throng.  Her hands are really cold and firm.  Ouch.

E is my Elementary school, where I dazed in reverie.  I never knew the content of the lessons.  I never did my homework.  What was I doing?  What was I thinking?  It’s also Escitalopram.

F is for the Father who never forgave me.

G is the Grace, who did the best she could.  Thank you for ignoring me, sometimes.  I mean it.  No sarcasm, here.

H is for the Hate I have for ruined childhoods.  I’m so sorry, Grace, for making a mess of what could have been some awesome years.

I is for the “I” of me, do I speak of that too much?

J is my Jolting heart, whenever I am touched.  What if I get raped?  What if I get raped?  What if I have a baby?  I don’t want it to hate itself.  What if he rapes me?

K is Kindergarten, where I learned I didn’t fit in.  What was playing?  Why did all the girls wear pants?  How is getting dirty okay?

L is Love, which may never pass my thickened skin.  It’s basically rape.

M is all my Memories, blown up and torn to shreds.  What happened at that party?  But you were – me?  No.  That can’t be right.  Who was watching?

N is Nothing – might I be, when I’m dead?

O is for Ophelia; I don’t know why it must be she.  I don’t know why she has become the symbol for the distressed female.  I respect her character, but I don’t identify with her.

P is for a French phrase: Vous me faîtes Peur, mon ami.

Q is for the Questions.  Do I ask too many?  Am I being weird?  How does my hair look?  Did I say too much again?

R is Regression into my mind, body, and soul.  I’ve never been older than twelve, in some aspects.

S is all my Stress, digging the six-foot hole. Also, Sertraline

T is all my Time constraints: Up at five, breakfast at eight, lunch at one, dinner at six, and bed at ten.

U is Underdressed (slut?), Underslept (irresponsible?), and Underweight (anorexic?)

V is Vaniloquence, which is basically all this is.

W is for Woman, which I am, according to my birth certificate.  Can someone burn it?  Can I have surgery now?  What if they hate me?

X is for Xanthippe.  Do you think I am one?  I really try not to be.  I’m sorry.

Y is the Yelling, which to some people is like talking.  What if I’m talking too loud?  Could you be a little quieter?  I need to concentrate.

Z is for Zero, the amount of ideas I have left for this letter.

(Note — Anxiety is a serious mental illness that has the potential to negatively effect the lives of the sufferer and his or her loved ones.  If you or someone you know suffers from anxiety, there are several resources available here and here.  — Sami)