Discomfort
I was going to write something mean. It would have made me feel better in the moment. But I think I’ve been mean enough for the night. It doesn’t take much for my disappointment to surface, and it takes very little for you to identify it—so. I think that work is done. You got that, right? That I am disappointed?
What I’ll share instead is a description of my discomfort.
On top of the high blood pressure I described a few days ago and the panic attack I had yesterday because of a stupid Dad PTSD episode, I also had a cavity filled today and bicycled about 20 miles every day this week. I ate some ice cream with gin and now I also have indigestion. I have a headache from the dental procedure. My husband asked if I’m PMS-ing, so I have a migraine from being married to a straight dude.
I’m going to describe the discomfort, so you know that when I am mean it has nothing to do with you.
I am going to describe how awful it feels not to be able to hold an embrace. We could just sit and stare at each other like normal people should. I can tell you that hair grows in the wrong direction all over me and everything I do to keep it looking one very specific way represents my discomfort with my own maturity, still. If this is the day you surprise me, I do not want you to find me unrecognizable. I am uncomfortable maintaining this fucking pose. I can tell you about how my feet are swollen and sore. My husband will rub them but then I have to watch television which I loathe. Why can’t I stop holding my own weight. Can someone please pick this morbid flesh up for me. It’s hot inside. My son has a fever so it’s hotter. My neighbors smoke cigarettes in their back yard all night which means I have to smell them all night which means I crave cigarettes all night which means I clench my jaw all night which means I can’t even imagine what it would feel like to consume you whole. All night.
A clean bill of health is a myth.
