My mother is a republican: Updates from rehab

Dear dear dear,

I sleep with a ski jacket on, three extra blankets, and I've asked for permission to pull my bed away from the window. I still wake up in the middle of the night with my feet cold.

I sleep with a CPAP mask and I look like an elephant. Accidentally wrap the cord around my neck in my sleep and get woken by the night staff. I once thought that love is someone waking up in the middle of the night to check to see if you're still breathing. Like my mom does when I sleep at home. I decided the keyword is waking up to check. Love is not the night staff.

Yesterday I told my mom I missed her, and you can never love somebody as much as you miss them. And the boys cried wolf for the thousandth time, the lights went out, and I couldn't think of any more excuses. My throat hurts from all the words I should have said, but didn't. The sentences are sliding down my throat like unchewed noodles and the exclamation points are stuck. Like a lump in my throat from all the crying I didn't do in group, but should have. What does it mean to be real?

Because sometimes I miss being able to relate to someone in the "real" world.
"I went to school today."
"Yeah.. Well.. I went to rehab. Celebrated five months today. Someone accused me of purging and I don't think my therapist believes I'm telling the truth. Sometimes I want to cry."
"Congratulations." Like it was my birthday or something.

Confession: I used to be afraid of the word "rehab." Like it was worse than the word "treatment" or something. Like it meant you needed more help than the rest of 'em. Now I'm afraid that I've become rehab. I'm afraid that the puzzle piece that was me no longer fits into the puzzle that was home. That was the world. I'm afraid that I'm better off stuck in a facility. I'm afraid of going home.

Sometimes I get tired of the lesbian girls talking about sex. I get tired of the straight girls talking about sex. I'm tired of telling Johnny to stop making penises out of his play-doh. I'm tired of having to answer the question of whether I'm bisexual or not. I really don't know what it would mean to say yes.

The graffiti in the bathroom is really world class. It says "my ass itches" and "#soberliving" in pen on the wall of the smaller stall. Maybe the sex-obsessed girls forget their pens on their way to the potty.

I wrote on myself and they called it self-harm. I cried and they congratulated me for opening up and feeling emotion. I wanted to throw open the windows. I forgot they don't open. For safety reasons.

Happily Ever After: I used to say that marriage was legalized slavery, but I'm not sure if I said that to get a reaction or because I really believed it. I was scared when girls talked about finding their big hunk and dragging him off to the altar. I was scared of all the cliche chick flicks about finding love and living out the fairy tale. I was scared I wanted the same thing. Look at how broken this porcelain doll is. Look at all these cracks she's had to glue together. She may be a doll, but she sure as hell ain't a Barbie.

This is about pen and pencil, crossing things out, and running out of things to say. This is about saying "I'm fine." Which is no longer an acceptable answer to any question. This is about crying in the bathroom because you feel lonelier surrounded by people than all by yourself. This is about apologies, and how there's either too many or not enough, or they're not sincere, or wanting to cry.

SHIT this is about wanting to make up words like Dr. Seuss but you can't figure out what you want them to rhyme with. This is what it feels like to be stuck on flypaper. This is about swearing when you're not supposed to. And calling it poetic license. This is loneliness. This is bullshit. This is hate. This is love. This is real on a page that is always trying too hard for too long and not thinking of any pretty metaphors. This is about wanting to look up shirts that say "zero is not a size" but getting too triggered by all the pro anna pictures saying "eat less." Not fucking kidding.

I wear my brain on my sleeve, but my heart on my forehead, so I always know what I'm thinking, but I never know what I'm feeling. And everyone else can see my anxiety plastered there above my eyebrows. And when my heart breaks, the blood pools, dripping into my eyes, and I'm blinded.

I ran and ran and ran, but when I turned to look behind me, the knife was still there along with the bottle of pills.

"And how do you feel about that?"

The last time someone left, they wouldn't let me give her a hug.

PS Listen to "Rehab" by Amy Winehouse.