“Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries,
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale” with, ”Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.”
well, you know what? i’m gonna be gentle to myself. whether or not i accomplish things. whether i’m at my one hundred or at my ten percent. whether i’m angry, happy, stressed, anxious or insecure. even when i don’t have all the answers or all the hope. even when the world demands more and more of what i can no longer give. even when i disappoint people. even, even, even.
If I had the bad entertainment taste to watch Eurovision despite Palestinians begging everyone to do as little as the literal inaction of not watching a shitty song contest once a year when I say I care about the Palestinian cause then I’d at least shut the fuck up about how I’m watching it anyway in public.
But nah, you assholes also have to post about it and contribute to its positive online presence on top of refusing to perform THE easiest, cheapest, fastest form of protest I’ve ever been asked to do by people who’re being genocided. And then you have the gall to complain that people are making you feel bad about it??? LMAOOOO
uhhh your honour please let the record show that the defendant won’t stop making jerk off gestures every time i get up to talk. well no he is because i can hear his handcuffs jingling when he does it. your honour can you get him to stop please
20616, 9 months ago
