Today, i almost stopped my tears from falling at my mother’s words.
empty tone, an @, 31 seemingly well-intentioned characters dripping through the lifeless screen
onto my fingers. i pinched the bridge of my nose and squeezed my eyes shut and counted
one
two
three
four
and imagined driving a knife into my chest.
it would be messy, i thought. they would be sad. i’m too far from home. but what if i just—
“nothing’s wrong.” right?
i called myself jiáo qing, which i guess is some combination of pretentious and weak. it’s probably
just stress. it’s probably just the essays. it’s probably just my indisputable incompetency
drenching me in cold water, head to toe and head again, to remind me that i can’t do anything.
but nothing’s wrong.
i don’t have depression.
i don’t have anxiety. not the real kind anyway, only what i joke about having when i don’t want
to see you, don’t want to see anyone, when i’m so sick of people.
i don’t have insomnia,
i don’t like to hurt myself,
i’ve never seen a therapist.
nothing’s wrong.
(i repeat the mantra in my mind, stamp my worth into the ground, raise my head and
“look, it’s fine, i’m fine, can’t you see? can’t you—can’t you—”
—can’t. waste time. on this. can’t be a waste. can’t—)
is it worse to be unsure if something’s wrong with you, or to know that it’s true?
(… but even if it were true, wouldn't i deserve it?)
and then—clear eyes. stretched lips. smile lines.
“nothing’s wrong.”
“really, it’s nothing.”
my best friend said one day—across a screen—over video—5.5 hours away—
that i looked pretty, smiled extra sweet, did something good happen?
there were bags under her eyes and a rare joy in her voice, and i thought about all the times
she asked me:
“are you happy?”
and all the times
i said: “yes.”
i dug my nails into my arm
and smiled a little sweeter.
Original work:
today i almost stopped my tears from falling at my mother’s words; empty tone, an @, 31
characters (that probably meant well) dripping through the lifeless screen, dropping onto my
fingers. i pinched the bridge of my nose and squeezed my eyes shut and counted one, two, three,
four in my head and imagined driving a knife into my chest. it would be messy, i thought. they
would be sad. i’m too far from home. but what if i just—
i don’t have depression.
i don’t have anxiety, unless you count the self-diagnosed minor social anxiety i like to joke that i
have to explain my fear of social interaction.
i don’t have insomnia and i don’t like to hurt myself and i’ve never seen a therapist.
so i shouldn’t pretend that something’s wrong, right?
(i repeat the mantra in my mind, stamp my worth into the ground, raise my head and
“look, it’s fine, i’m fine, can’t you see? can’t you—can’t you—”
—can’t. waste time. on this. can’t be a waste. can’t—)
my best friend said one day—across a screen—over video—5.5 hours away— (so, so far away)
—that i looked pretty, smiled extra sweet, did something good happen?
(and there were bags under her eyes and a rare joy in her voice, and i thought about all the times
she asked me:
“are you happy?”
and all the times i said: “yes.”)
i lied.
i didn’t tell her i felt worse than i had all week.
i dug my nails into my arm
and smiled a little sweeter.
