Five hundred words is not that many when you think about it. When you speak in a casual tone, you toss in lots of extra words that you forget you use. When you write it out, you do, I think, mentally edit out these inadvertent interjections. You concern yourself with clarity and you have your face to make expressions and bridge the gap.
I just want to do a post tonight. I don’t want to generate content for it. I don’t want to fix misspellings in it. I don’t want to talk about panic attacks or stress or caffeination or dieting or boys and the shitty ways they treat you. No politics, as is my luxury, here in the west, just to close my eyes and pretend it all isn’t happening.
I just want to do a post tonight. And then sit outside and stare into space.
Isn’t that how writing works? You just blink and blink and then you’ve got your pages.
I am out here on the balcony and I am demanding, forcing myself to finish this tonight. Just like this morning I woke up with a start and drunk my shake and opened my laptop and logged on to test myself on all the countries of the world. Before 8 am I’d recalled 176 of 186 or something close to that. I missed about 10. Which does put my addled mind at ease that I am forgetting crucial and significant information all the damn time. I am – of course – pushing old thoughts out to make room for new ones, or at least, refried thoughts and this is natural and unavoidable. When you walk the rut into the road and finally make a turn, you feel a bit off your balance, you have to remember how to see the world and not just your pre-loaded, pre-regurgitated version of it. This takes brain power. I forget how I need to forget to remember the new.
Today, we went to the mall after I ate things that I ate out of emotion and not reason. After I drank a fair amount of soda. After I gave my body a hard jolt of shitty materials after being relatively nice to it. And, because I’d read an excellent essay on panic attacks, they were on my mind. So I started to have one. Which is delightful and makes everyone angry at me because the main feature of a panic attack – if you’ve been so lucky as to never have one – is that you can’t conversate and explicate while it’s happening. So while I am convincing myself if I just walk like a normal human being, albeit very quickly, I can cross this second floor skyway across the mall to get to the clothing store for heavier people. This, is, when you don’t have that information, apparently, the apotheosis of rude. And when someone’s ughing and sighing over the fact you are behaving weird because you are trying to disbelieve a head that is telling you that you are going to stop breathing and your veins are clogged and you are having a heart attack, it is very hard to, even five minutes later, when you’ve realized this is panic and not real and you’re okay and breathing normally again, go back in and explain all that.
Especially when you’ve had this all your life and nobody’s taken it all that seriously because it isn’t happening to them. Especially when you’re thinking about how you fucked up the diet just because those tacos “needed” the flour tortilla to match up in your mind to the positive memories of eating at that restaurant, just because the scale is not showing any decrease at all, is wavering around increases. Because you’ve broken your own rules yet again. And with all this in your head and having been told that everyone is desperate to hurry home having already given you your allotted ninety minutes of anxious shopping, you can’t even look at anything and leave. You lie and say there was nothing you wanted.
Weeks go by and you wonder why your life has this lag in it. Why people just go and do things while you have to negotiate with reality to get your copy, dented, slightly used, picked over from last season. Nobody has one earthly clue how to help you so why ask? Why talk about this one more time, take one more trudge around the field full of rakes?
And then you go home and watch Ladybird and are told by your mother that it is a good movie and that has to be enough.