Behind the thin film, you're still my sweetheart

I have a tendency to use books like wallets. As I carry them around, they begin to house receipts, bills, post-its, and cards of all sorts. Because I bailed out on partying to recover from the brutal hit my immune system and feelings have taken over the course of a week, I noticed that I lost five pounds and dragged myself out to congratulate myself with some groceries. I always go to the same grocery store and park in the same in-between area in the busy park-adjacent shopping center so that I can park in seclusion. I love parking far out of driving anxiety and the ability to get my steps in, but because my lungs haven't fully recovered, it felt like I was dragging deadweight with me back from the store. I bought Kin Euphoric, the calm version, thinking I might change my mind and need to sedate myself while out with a friend's friends. I also bought two bottles of kombucha, grapes, three heads of romaine lettuce, croutons, caesar dressing, parmesan (the only thing that sounded appetizing at the time was a caesar salad), tofu, green onions, two boxes of spearmint tea, two cans of minestrone soup, Kerrygold butter, and one of those rotisserie chickens to force myself to get some protein in. Having dealt with disordered eating all my childhood, I can sometimes feel the shame in having a full fridge and even more in the concept of having to prepare and consume food to live. I've gotten much better about this in the past year or so and it felt exceptionally nice to be able to muster all the strength I have to carry two bags and a rotisserie chicken (I should have accepted the cashier's offer for it to be placed in its own bag because it was kind of odd dragging myself alongside a puny rotisserie chicken a quarter mile to my parking spot, but oh well) all the way to my spot. The past premenstrual week has been rough on my emotions, with flares of things I could have done differently haunting me exceptionally well, especially since I have abandoned my medication since the weekend as a means to quell the stress it's put on my skin. It's insane that I have chosen to put a hold on my hormonal balance so as to soothe my insecurity on outer appearance, but I have to say that my forehead hasn't looked this nice in months so maybe the profound sadness has more meaning than it usually does? That being said, I feel like I've still been able to step back and remove these sad stories that trace my brain and think of other small things that have been lovely so far. 

Compared to where I was mentally last year, I've come a long way. As I sorted through my books while cleaning up after Luz's pitch to come check on me since we both agreed to bail going out tonight, I found a four page little stack of post-its with such depressing writing on it. I forgot if it came out of Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential or one of the journals I was occupying earlier this year, but I had wrote:

    i think what scares me the most is that stressful feeling that keeps building and bubbling over and over         again to the point that i have a fever going. if i could just stop and explode or hit it out of my system 

    the pent-up stress and sadness of not being who i want so badly to be, look, feel it drives me fucking         mad

    honestly, i want to be so perfect and it kills me even when i know that it shouldn't. i just hate it. and 

    i acknowledge the discomfort and the change, but it drives me mad anyways.

Even where I am right now, I read this note and I just feel so bad. There was a moment in time this year when I had become extremely paranoid as I was dealing with serotonin syndrome after quitting Zoloft cold-turkey without medical assistance over the course of 6 months and always thought that something was going to happen. I do not feel that psychiatrists, therapists, and the likes are for me to this day, but I had one meeting with one and explained this to them. I explained that I felt like something was going to happen, but that I had no idea whether it would be good or bad. It was a video call and I remember her saying something like maybe you keep needing to see a professional even though you know everything they tell you because you just don't listen and follow through. I cancelled all my future appointments and when I was knee-deep in this paranoia all alone, I began listening to these insane manifesto transcendental meditations for weeks. I didn't enjoy the hums of meditations, but music would have kept me up all night, and I had very unfortunate images of very unfortunate things play in my head constantly that I needed to drown out somehow. It was so bad that I almost wished the initial stages of waking up in tears and sweat would come back instead. But soon, I found myself sleeping peacefully. I don't actually remember how I came to this state of quietude, but I know that even if the world rested heavy on my shoulders, I could put myself out in minutes. I think it's a combination of time, Moon Juice Magnesi-om, and past self abandonment, but the actual progress has lost me. 

I'm finding little ways to celebrate who I no longer am and who I'm meant to be and it means a lot to me. I have the tendency to let my heart take over to the point that my mind and body forget its purpose and in the past I was so unfortunate with conceptual love that I always ended up feeling like I was left out to die. But this year, I have been able to soothe my fears, hear new songs, feel new feelings of love, be present in the way the sky mellows to a fair blue and how the trees swish in a way that makes me feel like my mom is hugging me as a kid and telling me that everything's going to be okay. I remember to always look at myself from the perspective of younger me, something I learned from one of those batshit chime-y transcendental meditations, and honor myself and how sweet my heart will always be no matter what happens to me. I will still get hurt and get down and brush my hands towards some form of relapse, but I will always have myself, people I meet every now and then that mean something to me in all kinds of ways, I'll always have this life to bare until something else comes to change my present into a memory.

Art by Marc Devade