Britney

Crying me is SO refreshing. I talk about summer, I talk about small relapse, but this is the best state by far. I am a little shaky and my face is flushed but it doesn’t fold up the way it used to and the sobs are soft. As I am wiping my glasses I feel a familiar light throbbing in the center of my head, the telltale beat of every sensitivity pulled out of its habitat and stretched to the extreme. My mom goes, “Stop playing with your hair.” My cousin says, “Stop playing with your hair.” The cow goes, “Moo (footnote: stop playing with your hair).” It still falls. If I had saved it all I could’ve made a cushion of my anxiety by now. People don’t deny physical things the way they do concepts. This is a given that we are not allowed to bring up. It amazes me how volatile givens tend to be, but the controversy of Holzer’s truisms is a testament to such a phenomenon, I think.

I like to be scrubbed clean without all of the blood and ripped capillaries and dust from the peeling of old skin layers. I have never been able to hurt my skin or cut into it and I am grateful, but it leaves the pain in its respective lining to fester. I take it in waves. Sometimes I like it all at once. I must lend a benevolent hand when I am handling my own skin. I still have much to learn. ♦