our poet is having a hard time
2 weeks and one day
into a cure and she's already ready to bolt
she said that some days in life look like a natural disaster,
high on the Richter scale, days that shake you too hard you can't see straight
or think straight or be straight
she can almost taste it with the raisin Bran she gets each
morning and can't set things straight even when she lives up to her grape nuts
with the melon
it's just the milk, she thinks. which makes her stomach turn
and she wonders how she got there as her table mates brush peanut crumbs off
the table supposedly by accident
but she knows it's not accidental. it's something more and
she thinks about the joke one of her Angels made when being driven in minivan
the hell the man is responding to while a beyoncé song makes her blood boil
over the lyric about panties to the side
in the stop and Go of traffic she feels the pressure growing
, the panic creep in and she wraps her knees with her arms and she feels undone
throughout the morning she's so tired
she has a lovely roommate but our poet social anxiety makes
her think she needs to comfort the woman. she offered to take some of the
trouble of the other there, and now these swirl around inside her, too many of
these people are worse off than she is ,looking at her wondering how she's even
gotten there
this may be an illusion, perhaps a bit of her old self
needing self-importance even if the midst of social misfits, and a touch with a
bit of paranoia ,them looking funny at her
but she anticipates someone reading this as illusion but she
knows for certain that it's not happening all just in her head, ladies like as
can be highly competitive in its tense to be around.
so she sways back and forth, feeling exhaustion and
depression creeping back into her head and she feels a lot like she used to
feel having taken too many burdens and the impossible heavy task giving her for
the near future.
she says she is working hard to live up to this cure but
keeps picturing herself going to the Head Angel to ask for the woman to arrange
for an airline ticket home.
she pictures herself sneaking out with her stuff and
flagging down the taxi and there images keep building as she moves on to the
next duty and another therapist
eventually, she shuts down, nauseous with her stomach making
noises others can hear and she curls up into a pool and she shuts off what
other people are saying
then it is her turn and the woman asks her what her number
is apparently patience or categorized by level of severity
she wants to say zero for the size of the jeans she wants to
be wearing, the amount of dollars she is making, the number of times she has
successfully recovered, the number of people who want to visit her on family
day. it is the amount of food she wants to eat
she is overcome with emotion and can barely breathe she
feels as if she is just taken 10 steps backwards and then none of the effort is
worth anything and neither is she
her nurse tells her to tell the voices in her head to shut
the fuck up
she doesn't believe the nurse .the poet thinks she doesn't
deserve much, except pain or to crawl into a corner but she hugs the nurse and
goes to the table where she eats a sandwich and some fries
she feels the need to purge because of the type of food
she's eating and how full she feels
then another nurse asks her if she wants to self proportion
she needs to practice because she lives alone
this is a big deal since someone take years to reach that
point and the poet has been there only 2 weeks
she is conflicted and then sees it as a positive message and
a sign she might be able to go home soon
she stops worrying about what other people think of her the
two sides are at the stalemate she sees a light at the end of the tunnel
this was a dark day but she only thought of fleeing. she
didn't actually do it a good sign she thinks
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