I need to find my sense of self
and I’m not going to do that
sharing every thought
every feeling
every fear
so freely.
I am taking my heart off my sleeve
and locking it away
until I learn my lesson.
I may be back.
I may not.
Don’t wait for me.
One hundred days since I started writing.
How much has changed in one hundred days?
One hundred days ago,
I was working in a job that made me miserable,
I was in a relationship that wasn’t making me happy and I didn’t know what to do about it,
I was relatively healthy –
or at least I didn’t know how sick I was.
Now I am in a new job,
and I am struggling but I leave each day happy.
I left that relationship and discovered my propensity for cruelty
and my complete lack of empathy.
I started chemotherapy and had an ovary removed
and I have come to terms with the fact
that nothing will go back to how it was
and that’s okay.
One hundred days ago,
I decided to stop screaming into the void
and start whispering into a crowded room.
I learned to be my own summer.
Is it a weight
on my shoulders?
Honestly,
no.
It’s not.
I would have to care
for it to weight me down.
I’m too tired to care.
My boss pulled me to one side
to talk about some things
she had overheard.
She wanted me to know that
she was there if I needed to talk
about anything;
work or otherwise.
She tells me that
I need to be careful
who I say things in front of
because she’s concerned
I might upset people
and she doesn’t want me to get in trouble.
I try and bite my tongue
but every morning when my colleagues ask
“how are you today, Less?”
my mouth fills with acid
and I want to claw my throat out
because I don’t know how to answer
while staying in my authority
to not tell anyone what’s going on.
Time just keeps passing me by.
I blink and it’s almost September.
I keep beating myself up at work
because I feel like I’ve been there forever
and I keep making mistakes
and I should be better by now
but I need to remember
I have only worked here for two months.
I’m not expected to know everything yet.
Time is plodding along endlessly
and I don’t know if I’m
managing to keep up
or not anymore.
The taste of blood
fills my mouth
every moment of the day
as my wisdom teeth
are pushing through again.
My jaw is perpetually
tender and swollen
making me look like
an overly grumpy squirrel
hoarding food.
My wisdom teeth are
growing through perfectly straight
and my dentist tells me
that I’m lucky
and this means I am especially wise.
Wise is not a word
that I would use
to describe myself,
and I definitely
would not call myself
lucky.
Give up on me.
No, I don’t mean that in a
self-pitying
“please don’t leave me” way.
I mean it in a
“you’re only hurting
yourself at this point
so please have a little bit of
self-respect
and just stop trying” way.
