the drugs.

The drugs make me nauseous, the drugs make me shaky. They make me tired, leave me leaning against doorframes and sprawled across the floor. They make me dizzy when I'm sitting down.

The drugs make me overaffectionate. Leave me saying "I love you" too early and kissing cheeks, stroking hair.  Leave me spacy, laughing too loudly and saying things that don't quite make sense, drunk when I'm sober. The drugs make me cussy, have me saying fuckfuckfuckfuck soft and Tourettsian in the empty stairwell of the library.

I hate them. I hate them because they remind me that I'm not completely in control of my emotions or thoughts or behaviors; and because I can't cope without them. I hate the thought that I need them, couldn't quit even though I want to. The idea that I might not be alive without them.

I feel helpless and I feel blind in the dark. I'm sorry for this. I'll delete it soon.

light on my shoulders

I woke up too early this morning but I was drenched in warm yellow sunlight, and the dust floated on the heat from the radiator, sparkling like glitter. I think it was a miracle God wanted me to see. The apartment is empty, but I can hear the faintest music drifting in through the window. I got up and took my meds and sprayed the tub with mold killer. I toasted my cinnamon raison bagel.

There's a violent, ugly bruise on the inside of my elbow where they pricked the vein for my blood test. There's sky blue paint in irregular smears all across my forearm from the bedroom painting job of a friend of a friend. There's a slashed pink scar across my wrist, fresh but healing, from what my therapist calls "intense anger turned inward."

That feels like a more accurate representation of my emotions than anything else I could say about them. It's January and I'm still alive. I'm sitting in sunlight.