ego-morior

[ego-morior]

-

I started the New Year drunk and sat on my friend’s porch while everyone was inside continuing to enjoy the celebrations and ate my twelve grapes. I didn’t eat them fast like you’re supposed to. I even had my screen on the notes app with my 12 wishes. Four of them were drunkenly used for my grandma’s good health and happiness because I couldn’t remember if I had mentioned that one and I wanted to make absolutely sure it was mentioned. After that night, something shifted. I’ve become more… lethargic? Melancholic? I’m more grounded.

I haven’t done my tarot cards since before the fall weather hit the Georgia mountains. The last time I had done them, I shuffled and reshuffled until I realized I had seen every pattern of card combination to reflect the need to be patient and the detailed description of my hopelessness of it all. Whenever I see my loving number of 333, I give it one second of my time and look away.

I get up in the morning and go to work, and if I’m not at work, I sleep. And sleep. And sleep. And sleep. And sleep. I don’t experience dreams anymore, at least not any that I find any meaning to. I’m disconnected to any whimsical coincidences and otherworldly signs I might have considered guided or positive. I’m done with delusions, but it seems I’m also losing the light and motivation to do anything but breathe and do what I must to continue living in the world that currently exists.

My piano collects dust with a missing cable, locked away in the closet. My drawing pad is untouched and any novel I had started at the age of 10 sits on the screen with the same word count it had seven or eight years ago. I’ve exhausted my desire to have any interests and I no longer have any creative goals. At this point, I’m writing this just to say I did. Just to say I am. Just to have proof that I felt like this I guess?

I had a huge argument with my dad not too long ago. We were arguing about politics again. After expressing my concern for how rapidly the middle class is disappearing, he said he couldn’t understand why I cared so much for the poor if I wasn’t poor myself. The pause was long before I had to remind him that I had gone through that myself.

“No you didn’t.”

I lived in a motel for months and worked from morning to night at a restaurant. I worked two jobs and I struggled finding a physical address to get my license renewed at the time.

“But it was your own fault.”

I’ve never said it was anyone else’s fault, but I can’t deny I was there. In that situation. Through the course of my own actions I found myself in that particular spot and I forced myself out of it by working hard, working two jobs and doing doordash. But he never knew the extent of what I went through, because I never picked up the phone and asked him for money. Never. And I mentioned all of this to him. His anger continued building. He didn’t want to be reminded that his only child was such a disappointment and had gone through such a period in her life when she should have done better. Been better. Been a version of herself he could have been proud of. I was always used to the arguments used in retaliation afterwards. He was a broken record, always about the worst parts of me. “I could have been this,” “I could have been that.” And yet here I was, neither here nor there. But this time, the knife dug deeper than it should have and it hasn’t done that in years.

“How does it feel to know your ex is living a better life than you? Maybe he wasn’t so bad since he’s done everything right after you separated and you’ve only experienced poverty and struggles.”

Ouch. It hurt. It really hurt.

How can someone recover from that? I haven’t. It’s been days. I think about it whenever I’m not doing or thinking about anything else. The moment I get a moment of silence, my brain rushes to relive that moment and how the grip on my phone had nearly vanished. In my darkest moments, I always find myself wondering why God decided to give the same person that inflicted so much pain, everything I ever wanted out of life. It’s so strange to hear my internal dialogue come out of someone else’s mouth. It’s almost like it makes it real. It makes it seem like not only is it known by me, it is noticeable by anyone around me. These thoughts aren’t just a figment of my imagination; they’re reality. They’re real.

He’s gotten everything right, and I’m just here. No relationship. No career. No future. At the age of 32, I’m just here. Bad things tend to happen to bad people, so maybe in a way I have been so delusional with all these dumb signs and obsessed with all these idiotic prophecies I hear from people I paid to tell me things will be okay, that I never realized I am a bad person who doesn’t deserve the things she wants. It has to make sense right? Something has to.

I hate my life, but I don’t blame anyone but myself. I’m just devastated that I am still writing and feeling the same way I’ve felt since I was nine years old. All those stupid letters I’d write to myself asking for advice on how to keep going, what do I respond to her? Things don’t get better. Your books never get published. You never lose the weight you gain and when you do, you will find yourself back within a month of two. You never get into a healthy and loving relationship. You travel more than you ever imagined and even in the most beautiful places on earth, you’ll still be consumed by loneliness and depression. You never feel satisfied by anything even when you achieve things you cried and begged for. Your father was right, you have wasted your entire life. Your punishment for continuing to live, is to watch those who have wronged you live a better and more fulfilling life than you. And you will spend the rest of your days looking in the mirror and wondering why and if it will get any better than the day before. The only reason you still get up in the morning is to prove to those around you that optimism is an incurable, invisible disease that only affects the weak and stupid.

And you wear both titles, boldly and proudly, every fucking day.

[ego-morior]

-

It’s crazy how an old face on a missing poster brings back so many memories.

I was scrolling through Facebook this morning and saw an article about a missing person being shared by a friend who still lived in my hometown. The face looked uncomfortably familiar. It was as if my body instinctively recoiled at the image prior to my eyes and mind recognizing who it really was. The article stated the name, the age and their hometown. The shock creeped in. I held my mouth in horror; it was someone I had a personal connection with…

…in all the worst ways.

It was the guy my ex slept with the night he never came home.

It was the same man who posted a picture online of himself laying in bed with a kissy face, bragging about the wonderful night he had spent with another man. The image had seared into my mind that morning so many years after. Without much evidence that it was him, I had known then. Something inside me had told me. Those red satin sheets were the same ones my ex had slept in. And later on in the day after finally seeing him, he had confessed my assumptions were correct.

Memories flooded back.

Two years after the incident, when all was forgiven but never forgotten, we had gone to a mall for dinner and on that same line I saw that same face, of the man with the red satin sheets. The moment our eyes met, my body went into shock and I quickly went into the bathroom to vomit.

The memories came back with a vengeance. He had been missing for a week now and regardless of the red sheets and the mocking face I had remembered him having, I was mortified by the reality of the situation. How our lives twist and turn so violently.

Within the same rush of memories, I felt pity. I felt worry and anxiety. I wished for his safe return, truly and deeply. Isn’t that a little strange? A reel of all these horrible moments in my life played back with him involved and I only wished for his safety and well being. It wasn’t until I dug a little further that I realized he had been found only a few hours prior to my viewing and the ongoing search had stopped.

I experienced so many emotions within a couple minutes, but at the very end, my reaction was worry. If Heaven is real, a part of my subconscious must be allowed to enter. I use the phrase, “I wouldn’t wish that on my own worst enemy,” often. I didn’t know I really believed in the context. Even those who have wronged me will never find themselves far from my idiotic compassion.

I’m not sure yet if that’s a good or bad thing.

Perhaps, its something else you learn with time.

[ego-morior]

-

There is no numerical title for this one.

I have so many prompts left unpublished in my phone. It would be strange to believe this is the continuation of the previous thought.

I just had to dust off the laptop to write this. I hate that. It hums while the screen stays on dimly. Not nearly enough to see it without squinting, but just enough to pay respect for my desire to write again. And for that, I’m forever grateful.

That small word doesn’t seem to correctly express the value behind it.

I’m so grateful for its hard work, even after being forgotten for so long under piles of unopened mail and extra fast-food napkins. I feel like it’s the perfect metaphor for how I’ve been. Life’s been busy lately, time keeps doing its time well without stopping. My love of writing has been put on the backburner for several months now.

I’m moving.

This little home I’ve made is being stripped little by little of all the things I’ve collected/done since my stay here in Georgia. Of course I’m only moving in the town next door and of course it’s larger and not an apartment for only a hundred dollars more. There isn’t room to complain but my stubborn mind will always find a way. I don’t like change, I embrace it when it seems fun and exciting and run from it when it seems challenging and different.

I’ve been slowly moving all my things. My roommates found a larger home with an extra bedroom and an extra bath. An enormous back porch that looks out at the mountains like it’s sitting in front of an enormous canvas in a museum; the exhibit made personally for us. I can see myself writing outside on sunny days and sitting indoors by the fireplace on winter nights. It’s an upgrade. I’m not sure why I have to keep convincing myself it is.

The truth is, I’m worried like I always am. This apartment was the accomplishment of working two jobs over the course of years. It was the accumulation of sweat and tears, of wishful thinking and sleepless nights. I don’t want to release it. The other place won’t be my own. It will be shared. My roommates are not welcomed with an invitation into my space, I will be walking into theirs for the sake of my personal financial comfort.

I am sacrificing one of the two biggest goals I’ve always had, for the sake of accomplishing the other one. I am delaying finding a partner to share this life with, in the hopes of continuing to work on my writing. I spent the last two months craving my personal space and toying with the idea that another job would grant me the serenity of staying in the little cave I call my own. But another job would hardly grant me enough time to sit down and keep doing this. Of opening my laptop. Of dusting off the keys and giving my thoughts a physical existence.

So, I’ve decided to sacrifice my yearning to find that someone for an even greater love.

I was made to do this.

Not even a warm bed and an occupied photo in another country could ever replicate what I feel when a chapter is concluded or when a vision I’ve created is printed in words for another to imagine it. I’m throwing all my chips in. As much as the uncertainty haunts me and as much as the wrapping of every plate makes me nauseous. I need to do this.

I hate not knowing the outcome. I hate not knowing if this is the right move. I hate continuing to wonder, “maybe this will be my year,” every year that passes me.

But perhaps this new home I can barely call mine, will finally grant me what is.

[ego-morior]

LXI

"You can't have your cake and eat it too."

I heard my dad's heavy sigh over the phone. I've heard the sentence before. I've even used the phrase myself a time or two. But for some reason, hearing it to describe something I was trying to do made it seem so cruel... and yet so perfect to describe the way I always do things.

My roommates are leaving, and so is the extra income to keep myself financially stable. My stubborn mother will only visit me if I have no roommates, and I thought to myself what an amazing opportunity to have her finally visit me. I'll pay the rent an extra month on my own in the chance of having her stay for 4 days. To keep her comfortable and to show her the little home I was able to cultivate after all these years so far away from her and my home state. She finally accepted my offer.

So I planned everything.

I would pick her up at the airport and bring her home. And we would hike, and I'll show her the beauty of this state; the waterfalls, the blue ridge mountains, the rivers, the delicious foods and everything that made me fall in love with this area in the first place. And the best part? I'll drive her home with my roommates, and then I'll show them everything I love about Jersey. NYC nights, the boardwalks, the foods you can only get there. And then I'll drive down to Washington DC and show them the capital and all the history museums their hearts could desire. While they enjoy themselves, I'll drive and see my grandma and stay with them while my roommates explore the historic capital. Everything will go smoothly. Everyone will be happy and most importantly, I'll be able to do and show everyone dear to me everything I enjoy and love.

It wasn't until my mom interjected.

But not in the stubborn way I was used to, with unrealistic expectations and completely out of the way requests for her own benefit. It was a simple one.

She needed a wheelchair for the airport.

She doesn't walk much anymore.

The years have not been kind to her or her back, or her legs.

"C'mon," I scoffed. "Are you kidding me?"

It probably sounded cruel when I said it, but I think my brain was scolding the absurdity of it all. How time, the antagonist of my life, had done it again. This moment, however, it happened far away from my eyes to witness its constant ticking.

I look in the mirror and still own the same face I had a decade ago. I've complained about all the milestones I haven't reached yet at my age. But time felt very different for my mother. When I left her in Jersey, she was agile, normal for her age, even.

But that was almost 7 years ago.

And although I couldn't see the years in my own reflection, she felt it in her bones and away from any phone line that has separated us all this time.

I let the subject go, told her I'll figure out what to do, and see if I could accommodate. All the plans and fake memories I had conjured in my mind vanished as fast as they were made.

The moment the call ended, I cried. I sobbed, I trashed about. Angry at the world.

But I was a child born at the end of March, and that particular trait comes with an insatiable desire to get up and try again. So right after I cried, I looked up different things we would do while she was here. Wheelchair accessible parks and rivers and streams I could drive up to. I researched as much as I could. I called my dad regarding the change of plans, the suggestions I've made, the extension of my vacation to accommodate seeing my mother in Jersey instead. He listened to my rant, the impossibility of it all. The extra money it would take, the extra effort I was willing to go through, just to ensure the time with my mother would not go in vain.

"Stop."

"STOP."

"S T O P."

"You can't have your cake and eat it too. You must choose. You can't do all of these things together to please everyone... to please yourself. You will have to see your mother another time."

I managed to slip in other methods to my madness, but he insisted I should stop and that it wasn't possible, and even if it was, it would require time and money that I didn't have.

He was right, of course, and I swallowed the shameless enthusiasm like a stubborn child not wanting to eat anything green. On the outside, I seemed bothered, but I wore the sentiment of everything I've thought on my sleeve. The following day at work, after a few rude customers in a row, I managed to release a few tears when I ripped the receipt and handed it to one of them. I don't think they expected the sudden emotion, and quite frankly, neither did I. A coworker saw me, and I burst into tears the moment they acknowledged the streams on my cheeks. I walked off and sobbed in the back. I kept thinking about all the different fun things I thought I could do with my mother. How all those scenes were stuck in my mind forever like a prison. Unable to be released. Unable to be lived and experienced in the same way they were lovingly crafted to be. How the mother in those visions had thinning hair, a few extra wrinkles, but was still light on her feet and eager to see the world I would have shown her so willingly and happily. I had shown that version of my mother so much that the real one would never see.

All of these hopes had vanished in an instant.

It's a familiar pattern I didn't want to notice.

I always mourn what could have been, regarding everything and everyone in my life.

The marriage I wanted to experience before my 30s, the birthdays surrounded by a blended family I had created. The friends I'd invite to places, the partner I wanted to travel the world with. Now, something as simple as having my mother sit across from me at my dining room table seemed just as unreachable as all those other hopes and dreams.

I succumbed to the pressure and just cried. No one had ever seen me like that at work. The following day, I had so many people ask if I was okay. I lied and said that I was. How could I ever tell anyone that I was upset with my own imagination?

With a heavy heart and a week's worth of tears, I gave up. I canceled all plans of bringing my mother here, and I erased all hopes of seeing her ever within the walls of my apartment. I'm not happy about it, and I've been so somber as of late, but I've come to terms with it.

And seeing as how I'm currently on a diet, he was right. I can't have my cake and eat it too.

Perhaps I'll settle for some fruit instead.

And do what I always do best; close my eyes and imagine that it's cake.

[ego-morior]

LX:

April 30, 2024.

Yesterday was the first time I used my lunch break to cry because of my job.

When I first started, the supervisor of the customer service desk at the time, looked me in the eyes and warned me that this position was for those with a strong sense of holding their own against angry strangers who will see you as a target for all of their problems with the company. She told me, “you’re either going to cry every day because of this job or you’re going to do it once a week, but either way, you are going to cry, can you handle that?”

In a way, she was ultimately right, I did end up crying, but it finally happened two weeks before my first year working there.

I’ve worked at the customer service desk every night for a home improvement store for the past year. Some days are easier than others, but every shift will have two or three guaranteed problem customers. At this point, I’ve been able to handle it... mostly.

During the winter hours, locals living in the mountains were fine to handle. Their rudeness stems from a place of ignorance and not understanding. A great example of this kind of interaction was a man who slammed his wallet onto the counter and demanded I order him a gas heater and have it delivered to his trailer sitting at the end of an unmarked road only he knew the name of. After finding the correct heater, I asked him for his delivery address, which he promptly (and very aggressively) responded with, “why does this company need to know so much of my personal information?” I properly reminded him if he wanted it delivered, we would need his delivery address. He changed his mind swiftly, “just have it delivered to the store then.” And when it came to purchasing the online item, he opened up his wallet and threw two crumpled fifty dollar bills onto my keyboard. I tried to let him down gently and told him online orders have to be purchased with a card. I should have expected the following response; “I don’t believe in banks, I’m giving you cash, that should be enough. That there holds the same value, don't it?” The order never went through, and he fussed until his cheeks burned red with anger that he would be going to our competitor store instead from now on.

As infuriating as those kinds of interactions are in the moment, they’re funny to retell the next day.

When spring nears summer, the vacation homes and airbnbs in the mountains start getting occupied again by hundreds of visitors from elsewhere. Their rudeness, however, doesn’t stem from an ignorance you can laugh at the next day. 

“Well, what do you mean you can’t deliver it to my house? Jacksonville does it.” You can tell them certain trucks can’t make it up the steepness of their thin mountainous driveway, but it won’t matter, because another city in Florida can do it just fine. The other day a woman came in to return a light fixture that couldn’t be found on her credit card. She accused me of accusing her of not being able to afford the item, and hastily opened her checkbook and tossed all of the American Express, Skymiles, and other fancy weighted credit cards onto the counter. “I’ve got real money honey, I can afford everything in this place twice over, can you?” Not sure why but I kept thinking about that statement even after I had clocked out that night. I think I even took a shot before going to bed in her memory.

A gentleman once came in, dressed in ironed out khakis and a polo shirt. It was painfully obvious that he was not local. He approached the desk and very calmly and matter of factly announced to me, “I am having a dinner party tomorrow at my second home in front of the lake. I need several outdoor patios delivered there and I want a crew to come and assemble it on my property by 3pm.” Telling him that couldn’t be possible was harder than swallowing a spoonful of nails from aisle 15.

More and more of these out-of-towners, as the locals call them, are arriving in droves, and are being salt and peppered into the mix of already disgruntled locals. It’s fine to handle in batches but for some reason, it’s been affecting me more lately than it should. Even the pleasant customers wanting to purchase the right cushions for the lounge chairs on their balconies overlooking the blue ridge mountains have left a bitter taste in my mouth after every interaction.

I’m 31. I’ve worked hard for years now, making the most I’ve ever made and yet I’m still a paycheck away from financial instability. My savings could be gone from a sudden maintenance on my car or an unexpected trip to the doctor. I own nothing but the clothes on my back that I wear for my next shift. I go to work every day hoping I only get two ads instead of three during my short drive to work because I can't decide if I can afford spotify premium yet. And here I was, ordering a $200 pillow online for a woman that wanted to make sure it matched the ones she already owned in her Florida home. It’s disheartening to see it and witness it in person every day, y’know? A generation that will never properly understand how lucky they truly are to experience something so many born after them won’t be able to in their lifetime.

The unproblematic out of town customers smile wider, they laugh a little heartier. Even if you try to follow suit, you can just tell their biggest worry is whether or not they need to call a pool maintenance company this week or the week after.

And then there’s others that will threaten your entire career because they didn’t get the discount they felt they deserved. They have so much and yet they can point a finger at you and threaten your entire livelihood, just because they can, just because they've got a little extra time this afternoon. I can't imagine being so miserable when money isn't a worry. Once in a while I'll get ready in front of the mirror and think about how the rumor ever even started. Whoever said the phrase money doesn't make you happy, must have been talking to one of our loyal customers.

I don't think I was born to have an occupation in the customer service industry. Even now, I don't think I was born to do anything other than write.

I love writing. I think I always will. I think I was made to do this, and anything else will feel just as comparable as getting Martha’s third outdoor patio set to match her other two homes by the sea.

[ego-morior]

LIX:

March 16, 2024.

Healing isn't linear, at least that's what I've come to understand two weeks shy of my 31st birthday.

My body decided to celebrate the four year anniversary of Covid by getting it for the first time. I've lost my sense of smell and taste and have been out of work for a week. I'm currently making breakfast; cheese grits with soft scrambled eggs and bacon. The southern culture has clearly seeped into my current food cravings.

As I stirred the grits while the hot water claimed each speck, I thought about how funny it was to have gotten Covid four years after the fact. I thought about four years ago. I thought about that two week vacation we all thought we were getting. I remembered how serious it had gotten when I went to my first job and they laid me off because I had a second job, only to go to my second job for them to tell me I was laid off because I had another job. I remember crying so bad on my friend's couch that I passed out until it was dark out. I remember spending my newly found free time reading or playing animal crossing on my friend's front porch, feeling the leisure of a drawn-out wonderful sunny afternoon. I remember thinking back then that it couldn't be the end of the world because the birds still chirped the same.

And then, for the first time in a very long time, I remembered him.

I remembered how my heart fell into the depths of my stomach when I saw his name on my phone screen after so much time had passed and how I feared the worst. When I finally got the courage to answer, he said a simple "hi."

We eased into conversation as if no time had passed us. He asked how I was and how my family was doing, and I naturally did the same. We laughed about how crazy the world had gotten lately, and when words were hard to find, it was the loudest silence I had ever heard. Although our time together had ended, when the idea of the world ending slipped into reality, he gently considered me, the person he experienced life with for 8 years. I think at the end of the conversation, I cried a bit, but I don't really remember anything after that call.

The fondness of that memory melted into my heart, and within seconds, an overwhelming sense of rage and frustration took over. I can't honestly tell you why or for what reason, but what I do know is that my blood boiled and my tears had managed to pierce through uninvited. And in that moment, at the end of that string of thoughts tied loosely together by a random single memory, I thought of my mother.

I thought of her.

And her fits of rage and frustration.

And I cried even more.

I think in that moment I even cried for her.

My mother had fallen in love with my father the same way I had once fallen in love with the man who called me during Covid. He was her first in every way, and every new treasured experience was made with him and his face embedded in its memory.

After their separation, she stewed in resentment for decades, and there was never another love in her life again. Later on, when I was older, she confided in me about how my father had helped ruin all of the hopes she had for her life. She mentioned sadly, almost in embarrassment, that after realizing the existence of me inside her, she was suddenly flooded with the endless possibilities that laid out in front of her. She envisioned a big family, a loving home, shared holidays and a shared life, a brand new purpose in life, one that wouldn't be so difficult and so lonely along the way.

But things didn't work out that way.

She never got that large home or the extra kids she had already picked out names for. She never wore that white dress. She never had a consecutive Valentine's or an anniversary present. She never got the chance to experience watching someone else grow old alongside her with photos and videos as proof.

Sometimes, in my own selfish way, I forget she was once young and stupid in love too. Sometimes, more than I'd like to admit, I forget I am molded in her likeness. I've become the age where I look in the mirror and see the face she wore when I was younger. And I look into my eyes and recognize the same sadness that lingered in hers.

So many years have passed since my first and only relationship, I've come to understand that my reluctance to embrace new connections and refusal to let others know me on a deeper level, is merely a reflection of my mother's earnest plea to shield herself from enduring that kind of pain ever again.

And as the grits bubbled violently in front of me, I began to stir harder than I cried. I realized, if I am only half my mother's bitterness when it comes to love, then I understand why she was the way she was back then, and why she is the way she is now.

I finally turn off the burner, the cheese and butter now fully incorporated into the ripples of the mixture in front of me. The grits are done, and so is the unexpected love letter I ranted in my head for my mother. And while I began pouring some into a bowl, I contemplated calling her just to say a simple "hi."

[ego-morior]

LVIII

February 28th, 2024.

I woke up in a strange manner. The moment I opened my eyes everything was distorted in a foggy way with extra lines and extra depth. Almost as if my surroundings were a photograph that was also traced over and roughly sketched on. But my attention rarely lingered on the strangeness of the things around me. The sounds. There was the sound of rushing water against my ears, in my ears, somewhere. The movements and inner workings of my organs were loud and uncomfortable. My heart beat drummed as its supposed to, but it was louder and happening around me instead of inside me. I look up towards my bedframe, the movement twice-no-three times as hard as what it usually feels like.

I hear a small gasp coming from the doorway of my bedroom.

"But I'm supposed to be alone in the house," I thought. The gasp worried me. I continued looking up at the bedframe, the rushing of water against my ears and the movements of my organs getting louder. I felt so strange. I attempt to turn around and look towards the doorway, the movement was slow and stretched and it took so much more energy than it should have.

A second little gasp, this time it was clearer than before.

It was a child's gasp.

I fully turn around, the dizziness in my vision taking a toll on my senses. The rush of water intensifying against my ears. I now faced the ceiling, barely conscious. The sounds seemed to become more like static, my senses overloading the moment I had turned over.

The moment I blinked, I was on my belly again, looking at my pillow laying against my bedframe. The extra streaks of definition no longer there. The loud disturbing sounds of my body no longer there. The small child's gasps, no longer there. I jumped out of bed with ease. I looked around me. Was this an out of body experience I just had? Did my spirit wake up first before my body? I was so terrified. It was such a foreign concept but I couldn't explain what had happened to me or the fact that I felt like I had awoken twice. And then there was the child I heard, the one that gasped two times during my movements or physically lack there of.

I did my morning business as usual. I went to the bathroom, I started the coffee, made a small ham and cheese sandwich in the air fryer and started a load of laundry. And I continued thinking about how I had woken up in such a strange and unfamiliar way. And I think about the child I heard. And I cried.

I don't think I ever will be a mother. I don't think I'll ever get the chance to be one. I'm not saying I'll always be alone and miserable, but I'd want to create a child under the most perfect circumstances. One in which I'm with my partner who would devote the rest of his life in being with me and raising a family. One where we can both be happy and so in love that our children would never understand the concept of hatred, misery, or loneliness. I would only want to give a child the best I could offer them, and that is a childhood that hardly resembles my own. But it's hard to imagine a healthy relationship during these times. I've seen more divorces than marriages, and I've experienced first hand how men in relationships, marriages, perfect families are so eager to throw it away for an exciting rendezvous with a stranger.

The idea of having a child is so foreign to me and throughout my almost 31 years, I've never expressed wanting one. But hearing that little gasp. Hearing it twice. I cry just thinking about it. What was that? Who was that? Could it have been the little soul that waits for me somewhere out there? I can hardly put into words how ridiculous this sounds. I'm still in shock. I heard them. I swear it.

[ego-morior]

LVII

I think part of me knows, if I want to find someone I want to grow with, I'll have to leave the state of Georgia. Ever since I moved here, I've had a lot of people interested in me and wanting a chance to get to know me further, but I should probably let you know that emotionally, at least on a deeper level, I am a brick-wall surrounded by vines and thorns.

My coworkers have asked why I'm not in a relationship yet. After losing so much weight, I have a decent figure. I'm plump in the right areas, and my face is the right combination of my attractive mother and decent-looking father. Plenty of customers at work have given me their numbers, but with the same ease they've written it down, I'd throw them away the moment they'd leave.

I've complained about old lovers moving on, but I've never mentioned how many times they've snuck in a message to see if I truly wouldn't give them another chance. Even my old relationship called me twice on a private number the day before his wedding, he never spoke and I hung up after a minute of silence, but for some reason I knew.

I know I complain about being alone and feeling lonely lately, but I've chosen this. I feel like the moment I find the right person, I'll know. I've wanted this for so long that I know there's someone out there meant for me.

Everything happens for a reason, and so far, I've met the perfect people along the way to know exactly what I want now. My first and only real relationship was a trial through the good and bad of what it means to be in one. I felt true anguish and sorrow when it was finally over, but it was only because I was terrified of the unknown.

When I moved to Georgia to get away from the breakup and my past, I met someone who was known to be the best lay in the area. They were definitely not wrong, but they definitely didn't know he had finally met his match. He was obsessed with me. He loved the playfulness of doing something risky with no strings attached. I used him for a good time and called him whenever I wanted something and in return, he showed me I shouldn't be ashamed of my body. He would kiss every scar, every imperfection. Every area I would hide with my hand he would move it away and kiss it. He taught me how to love my body first and foremost. Every interaction we had was all about me and making me feel euphoric. He loved making me happy in bed, but he couldn't make me happy anywhere else. He was poor, struggling with a drug addition and in and out of prison. So one day I sent him a letter and told him it was for the best we didn't see each other anymore after he was released. I know the goodbye hurt him, because as tough as nails as he was in person, he sent me a picture of a rubber frog I had given him and how he kept it in his glovebox years later as a good luck charm.

After learning the ins and outs of a relationship, and learning to love my body and knowing my worth, I met the most painful of interactions. I met the perfect representation of what I want out of a partner. I've talked about him in passing, and I won't go into further details but he was built like me, mentally, emotionally and childishly. We would drive around and talk endlessly. We would drive to new places and experience new things. He would always pick me up or offer to drive us and would take me wherever I wanted, even if it was crazy and two hours away, he'd take me there. He was so adventurous and never said no to any suggestion, but one of my favorite things about him would be catching him talking to people. He came from an influential family with lots of money, sometimes he would brag about the things he'd done and the brands he'd wear, but whenever I'd leave the bathroom or enter a convenience store, there he was; talking to the cashier or the janitor, asking them about their day or making a conversation about their dreams. He was so kind. Not only was he so thoughtful and forward with ideas and risks, he was so kind to others. He was perfect.

But with the same swiftness I throw away the numbers of strangers lately, he left my life and left the state without saying goodbye.

Every person has taught me the perfect combination of what I need and want out of a relationship. Now, I eagerly hope to find a combination of all the qualities of men I've met in the past, into one. One that will show me the importance of loving my own body and prioritizing my own happiness, and one that will never say no to the opportunity of making new memories with me.

One day I'll find him, for some reason this year I know I will.

[ego-morior]

LVI

Hello again little time capsule of mine,

I'm just complying with a check-in at this point, but check-ins are good I guess, especially in the case of keeping up with a diary. Today is the first day of February, 2024. A little less than a week ago, I started fantasizing about how I should celebrate my 31st birthday. I began wondering if I should travel somewhere alone and see something new, or use the time off to see my mom and visit Jersey for the first time in 5 years.

5 years.

Sounds surreal.

I made sure I checked something off the bucket list this year in celebration of my birthday, and bought tickets to interact with my favorite animal; a beluga whale. The Georgia Aquarium is offering a Beluga Experience where you can sit near the edge of the Beluga tank and play, pet and feed them. I know I'm going to be sobbing the entire time but I'm hoping I look good for the picture.

The idea sorta lingered in my mind.

Who will take my picture? I'll be going alone. I'm sure I'll ask one of the workers there if they could take it. The thought alone stings me with embarrassment but, it's okay. One day I'll find someone to share these moments with, right?

You'd think after 30 years I'd get used to it. A psychic told me recently that in a previous life I had been in a horrible relationship with an abusive man, and that all I did was focus on his needs and his happiness and that I promised myself in my next life, I would enjoy my life and grow on my own as a person first. And here I was, getting exactly what I wanted with an unexplainable insatiable desire to please and care for a partner while I receive their company and affection in return. It makes sense in a way, but lately I've taken a psychic's words with a grain of salt and applied the advice whenever it was needed. I barely even do my tarot cards anymore, every reading was always the same;

be patient, what you want is coming.

The cards must not know who wields them. I am the most impatient person I know.

[ego-morior]

LV

I'm stuck.

God, you would think the feeling would go away once you hit 30 but it will probably take me 30 more years to realize feeling stuck is just something very human that happens to humans.

I've been debating going to therapy recently, just to get a third person point of view on the feelings I harbor. Someone without bias to validate certain things and point out the flaws of others. A different pair of eyes to take a look at all the puzzle pieces I have yet to combine together across the table. Someone with enough experience to point out that there are a few missing edges that I will never recover and that it's okay to stop searching for them. Maybe hearing it out loud from someone else won't hurt as much as when I whisper it to myself in the middle of the night on a random Tuesday.

Something you learn a little later on, is that writing things after a breakdown and not during one, will always be easier to digest on an empty stomach. The rage, sorrow, fear and anguish have simmered down into a stew that isn't bubbling violently over the edges. When it's finally warm enough to sip from without burning your tongue, that is when you should pick up the pen. And that's exactly what I'm choosing to do now, on a cold morning in November.

November 8th, 2023.

I have quietly wept during the past days and loudly sobbed during the past few nights. This is the first morning I don't wake up with a wet pillow and the first time I can drink my coffee and listen to something silly online that has nothing to do with my life. Maybe it's the seasonal depression or the timing of Snapchat memories that has claimed victory to my senses this year. About two weeks ago, I gave up on a love I hadn't heard from in three years. The first year apart, I carried the yearning in the front pocket of every flannel I wore, the second year, I kept it in my purse, far enough where it wasn't part of who I was anymore, but close enough if I ever needed it. The third year, I kept those feelings in a small box in my sock drawer. And now, I have accepted the fact that they have no place in my home or in my life, because the idea of a "maybe one day," has lost it's meaning as time marched forward.

I spoke about him in passing, but I never really emphasized his importance in my growth. Maybe one day, I'll tell you about him, but for now just know, that the person I thought was my other half, was nothing more than a simple tease from the universe. There are several hundreds of articles on how to identify a soulmate or a soul tie. How to know "they're the one" etc. Something silly to give a lost existence some sort of made up trajectory to feel better about yourself for not being able to find a definitive path. But what they don't tell you, is that once your sense of escapism finishes, you feel more lost than before. Because directly afterwards as your feet move forward, your head keeps looking back at what could have been, what might have been, the 'where did they go?'s or the 'what are they doing now's and you don't focus on what's in front of you. The moment you stop looking back, you realize time has continued on and your feet have taken you somewhere you don't recognize.

Here I am, somewhere new, but only mentally and emotionally.

A different man I had a small chapter with, became a father this week. The man I spent almost a decade with, my very first relationship, has purchased a large home on an even larger property with a new wife. A couple of childhood friends have gotten married and made families. Time has moved on, and the frustration I have felt these past days is that everyone seems to have proof that time has moved on. Everybody, except me.

I wondered if maybe I was jealous of them, while I cried and sobbed and screamed uncontrollably this week. I couldn't put into words how every image was a punch in the gut. Some have wondered if maybe I missed my ex, or maybe I wanted to be the third baby-mama of the man who taught me how to love my own body. But I feel nothing towards them in particular and I didn't have the words to explain the anguish I felt to those who tried leaning an ear my way. The emotions felt deeper than just missing or yearning somebody from my past, but the explanations that came out of me only seemed to lean in that direction.

But the pot has finally simmered.

And I can finally put into words what my heart and mind have been begging to express.

I hate that everyone I have known, then and now, has proof that time has moved forward. A new home, a new baby, a new wife in a new place in a new stage in life takes time and energy. These kinds of things don't just happen. I have an apartment, a car, and a small position as a glorified cashier in a store.

I don't have a published book, or a new relationship to flaunt. I don't have a well-paying job or an upcoming vacation I can plan to run away from the feelings I pretend I don't pack in the suitcase I carry with me. The passage of time has always been the antagonist of my life and oddly enough, all it does is its job.

And it does it well, and it does it for everything and everyone else.

[ego-morior]

LIV

I got on a plane and left Georgia so I can spend my birthday week with my family near Washington. The moment we took off, I realized I had left the ground nearing the end of my twenties, and that when I would return, I would be 30.

Right now as I write this, it is an hour shy of midnight. I have been quiet and a little out of it for a couple of hours now. I'm happy. I'm grateful for where I am, and how I am able to spend another moment in time with my grandmother who's health has been waning as of late. But there is a burning in my cheeks I've been experiencing since I awoke this morning. It's a sensation that mimics a drunkenness state but I haven't had an ounce of alcohol. I'm not sure what it is, exactly. I'm here but I'm not. I talk, but I don't know what I'm saying. I hear, but I don't listen to what is being said. The best I could describe the sensation is a very productive state of autopilot.

I didn't think I'd get here. I never thought I'd reach this age, at least not in this position. Throughout my years of throwing temper tantrums and shouting empty threats into the sky of how I better be happily married with a family of my own by the time I'm 30; this reality I have slowly cultivated has become the worse-case scenario in terms of my hopes and aspirations.

I am unwed, with no real partnership. I have no children, no house that I own. I have finally reached the year I had always manifested would be an existence that was beyond my comprehension at the time of my desperate cries and pleas. I always imagined I'd be surrounded by family at a dinner table in a place I had come to call home, with my husband's hands draping the edges of a chair behind me as I sat in front of a cake with glowing candles, in a room filled with friends and family. I thought I would be skinny and beautiful, with love in my eyes. A love that I only imagined could come from the realization that I had achieved everything I had ever wanted from a life I believed was worth living. In those visions, my happy self was the most beautiful person I had ever seen.

I awoke this morning, with air in my lungs, fresh clothes on my back, in a warm bed with the ability to get up on my own. I hobbled my way to the bathroom, and the first thing I saw on my final day of being in my twenties was a sadness I didn't think I would have to recognize anymore. The love I had envisioned in the eyes of the woman I thought I would become all these years, was not there. What do I do with this information? My brain hasn't been able to process it properly. The woman I had envisioned turning 30, with her face glowing from the lit cake, sat atop a dinner table I had recognized as something I owned in my own home, surrounded by friends I had accumulated throughout the years and family members that had arrived just for the occasion, with a husband who had planned it all along, never existed. I fell in love with an illusion and did nothing to achieve it and turn it into reality.

I am no different than the little girl I was who wrote my future-self letters begging for advice on how to become her. All this time. All these years. I still craved the existence of a future version of myself that would never exist. Whether it was a secret time traveler, or a fulfilled woman in her thirties. Both expectations were mere fantasies. I'm beginning to realize the tickling in my cheeks are from an internal sense of embarrassment and disillusionment I had felt all along.

I was never her and I, in turn, have never changed.

I walked out of the bathroom a couple minutes after midnight pretending I hadn't noticed the time. My grandmother had organized the bed for me and laid out special pillows and a well-placed fan at my side. The renovations happening in the house have allowed me to sleep in her bed during my stay here. I sat down drying my hair in a towel as she explained the best ways to dry hair before bed. She turned at some point and noticed it was after midnight and rushed over to give me a hug and said Happy Birthday.

The uneasiness and melancholy I felt this week but was unable to release had all accumulated into a waterfall of tears, and I began to sob hysterically in her arms.

A couple minutes ago, I had yearned for a future I envisioned for years and grieved its death, without taking into account the reality of having my grandmother here still with me and being greeted in her arms as I welcomed this new era in my life. I am so overwhelmed with different emotions right now I feel like I'm about to faint.

Happy 30th Birthday.

[ego-morior]

LIII

It’s been a week since I have worked. I’m feeling useless and powerless to continue. I just paid my car insurance and I have a little over $300 left to my name. I’m wondering how I will survive all of this economically. The emotional aspect is a different story all together.

I’ve been trapped inside and alone with my thoughts. The only things that are free in life is breathing, crying and overthinking. And I haven’t been spending a dime lately. I keep rewinding everything. Even if this virus were to hit my timeline of events, I wish it had happened during a place in my life in which I had a partner to share these moments of anxiety and worry with. Life is so hard experiencing it alone. I hate this. I’m not even a jealous person but I’ve been radiating with envy at those stuck in quarantine with their significant others. The sex to calm the stress, the conversations, the assurance that everything will be alright, the financial burdens evenly distributed among them. I’m ravenous with a jealousy I’ve never felt. Sometimes I wonder why I’m stuck without anyone right now. So many people comment about how I am ‘perfect wife material,’ and yet here I am, broke, empty, depressed, anxious, and born-again virgin since the last time I’ve had sex. The energies I’m releasing into the universe are heavy and dark and I can feel their presence every day I wake up. None of this will be good for me later on. People will start to notice the shadows that loom over my spirit and I won’t be good enough for anybody to even want to start a relationship with.

I guess, I focus too much on that aspect of my life. But I can’t seem to help it.

Last year I made a wish on my birthday, looking up into the night sky, regardless of the absence of shooting stars and hoped with all my might that the next birthday that followed I would be in a loving relationship and in a cozy home I’d call my very own. Neither of those will come true this year. As the date approaches, I find myself laughing at the implausibility of it all, and how pathetic I was in thinking things would somehow curve themselves into the manifestation of my deep desires.

But knowing me, and knowing the sickeningly masochistic approach I have in life, I naturally find the optimism in the worst of times. So I wouldn’t put it past me to make the same dumb wish this year for the following.

I bet the universe laughs.

I bet the audience track plays in the background, as it wipes the grease off its fat face as the popcorn spews over its protruding belly.

I bet it’s a hearty laugh.

It’s a gag it has seen over two dozen times.

Why not have a laugh at 27th?

[ego-morior]

LII

It's 3:30am, almost exactly one year since I last left you. It's March 19th, 2020. I've been told by many psychics this would be my year. The year I find my soulmate, the year I find myself escaping the monetary hole I've dug myself in, the year I get a new home and begin my new life filled with happiness. They weren't wrong.

For the first part of the year, I did end up meeting the person I believe was my soulmate. You should have seen him. He oozed kindness and excitement for anything and everything. He'd run to help others whenever they found themselves in need without expecting anything in return. He'd befriend everyone he'd encounter, the cashier at a gas station, the janitor beside the public restroom, the old man waiting in line. He'd take me everywhere, regardless of the time, the money, the effort. And even if the sun was rising just beyond us and we were exhausted from hanging out all night, we'd spot a sign for the closest city and we'd both look at each other with a tired grin and raised eyebrows as if to say, "should we go?" He mirrored me in ways I couldn't fathom or understand and we'd melt into each other through conversations about anything and everything. I didn't fall in love with him, I didn't even see him romantically. But the ease he brought my soul when he was around me became almost impossible to replicate with anyone else. I'm still trying to figure out what that whirlwind was and why I had met my other half if... we were going to end our interactions with the same swiftness it began. We stopped talking. Just like that. And the light that appeared in my life dimmed once more, but I've been used to the darkness so I carried forward. I think I wake up everyday asking the universe why that happened if nothing came of it. I figured it was just the universe being cruel. So I haven't expressed or voiced my despair about it out loud.

I did find extra income. I had gotten another job at a warehouse moving and labeling boxes containing furniture and light fixtures. For a full month and a half I worked two jobs everyday, back to back with no breaks in between shifts. The weight of exhaustion grew heavy on me and both my appearance and spirit suffered. Everyone noticed the change. I became a shell of my former self for a month. Until... the virus hit the U.S.

I lost both my jobs within a 24 hour period. The stress buried into my chest and I caved into a panic attack that day until I was subdued into a depression-like coma in my room. Not only did I finally find and lose my soulmate, but I had lost everything I worked hard for in the state of Georgia. It feels like it's been weeks, but it's only been three days since my departure from my normal routine. I haven't been doing well keeping myself busy. I find myself quietly wondering why the universe was taunting me so much. It's as if it had given me a taste of everything I wanted, and it had left me in an empty room to starve with an insatiable hunger for more.

I don't know what comes next.

I would love to have a happy ending to this story, but it seems like the pages of this life are getting shorter and I'm getting closer to the binding of the back cover of this existence. Of course I'll keep fighting, it's embedded in my nature it seems. I've made it this far, haven't I? I have yet to figure out if that is an accomplishment or just an idiot's mistake.

With everything happening around me and the spread of the virus, my father wants me to go with him to Nebraska where he is currently stationed. I've lost both my jobs and rent is getting closer again. He believes it's the perfect time to pack all my things and make my way north to join him and begin yet another life. A new home. A new job. A new group of friends. A new town. The idea of it all is nauseating to me. I don't want to keep running away and restarting the game. I don't want to go there. I'm getting older. I'm almost 30. I was supposed to be married by now. I was supposed to have a home with someone by now. I was supposed to have a stable career by now. I was supposed to know what I'm doing with my life by now. I don't want to go there. I'd be living with my father while celebrating my 27th birthday. I can't do that. It's not the life I expected. This is not the existence I want. Please.

I should have jumped in front of the train that day, a few years back. I should have jumped over the bridge a couple years prior to that incident. I should have dug the knife into my veins when I was 9. I should have ended this a long time ago. If I would have known my existence culminated into nothing, I would have done it to relieve myself and my family the pain of watching me waste away.

How embarrassing.

I thought I had enough maturity to properly write down my feelings about my experiences since I last left you, but I still get carried away with my emotions.

I am in deep pain.

I don't know what else to write.

I'll come back to you soon.

[ego-morior]

LI

Can't sleep. My heart aches from loneliness. I'm not really sure what to say, I haven't updated this in a while and I'm not in the mood to update it right now. It's 4:15am, on March 31st, 2019. I don't have the energy to tell you how or why I am where I am. I will tell you a few things however. I'm in my friend's guest bedroom along the Great Smoky Mountains of North Carolina. I can hear the rain pitter-pattering outside against the roof. It's a light, harmless rain that could soothe anyone to sleep, but for some reason I've been waking up every hour on the hour. I'm tired, but it's not the kind of tired a good nap can cure. I'm still alive. I somehow made it to 26 years old. Time flies, huh? The loneliness I feel makes me physically achey. I want to cry but I can't. I wonder what I'll do today? Maybe drive to Atlanta or hike if it stops raining? I don't have any plans. I'm too scared to bother anyone to hang out with me today. I wish I was happy and comfortable with the idea of being alone. You'd think after all this time I would, but as time continues the ache gets progressively worse. Even without a birthday cake candle to blow out, I wish you'll have a great day today. You made it this far by yourself didn't you. That in itself, should be something worth celebrating. Happy Birthday. Eat a macaron for me.

[ego-morior]

L

Hello, it's been a while.

Today is February 18, 2019.

My last post was almost a year ago.

I'm currently back in New Jersey, packing up a few things and throwing the rest away in order to go back to the place where I have naturally been calling, 'home.' So much has happened that I'm not sure where to begin. I find myself 45lbs less, driving around in a vehicle I purchased and call my own, I have a job that pays well enough for me to live comfortably on my own, I found someone that had made me feel desirable and attractive, and I found a circle of friends that love me and have welcomed me into their little family, all nestled among the Blue Ridge mountains of Northern Georgia.

The day I came back and inserted the key into the door, I was hit with both nostalgia and a dull pain. My animals were all gone. One of my birds had passed away while I was gone, my beloved fish was no longer in the tank and the baby bird I had watched grown for years was gone. A silence that I didn't remember had greeted me. Everything was cleaned and spotless, and mostly empty. A few pieces of furniture were gone, piles of clutter had gone and with it the multiple objects that hinted at the idea of another person living there. I walked around, the echoes of my footsteps bounced against the walls. The stillness was unnerving, but the sights nevertheless made me finally feel at peace. Memories flooded back with every touch. I sat down and played the piano for the first time in 10 months, I dusted off a record and it lazily spun a melody for the first time in so long, I took a warm bath with scented candles and took off my shoes in a familiar place, all my own. I entered the bedroom and the smell hit me, the nostalgic scent of my ex. It was strange because the first thing my instincts did was to look for the man I was currently involved with's scent. The smell in the room and the bed sheets seemed off to me. I didn't want to smell my ex anymore, so I turned on a scented candle and hoped for the best.

The first night I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned. I was tired from the 12 hour drive north, but I couldn't manage to pass out. Thoughts kept plaguing me. I tried to remember how I had left in the first place, and how in the blink of an eye, months had passed and things had changed so much. I was back home, physically. But this place was no longer a home, it was an empty, quiet shell.

I promised everyone back in Georgia that I would return in two weeks. But it's been a little over that, and I haven't made much progress. I'm going through a depressive stage again. Every time I grab things to throw them away, memories keep flooding back. I didn't recognize the old person I was. I had become a hoarder for love.

I had given 7 years of myself to someone, and in those 7 years I had bought so many things in order to create a welcoming home for somebody. I didn't know what a home was, or how to make it feel like one for someone else, so I purchased everything and anything I could to make him happy. The little money I made, I poured into him. I'd purchase something because I thought it was funny, I'd buy this other thing because it reminded me of him, I'd buy two of these and two of those because he'd love them. I invested so much of myself, and my time, my energy and my money into attempting to fix somebody broken while I in turn, was falling apart at the seams and I was too preoccupied on making sure he was okay to even notice what was going on, on my end. With every item I find, my heart sinks heavier. I tried so hard for something that was pointless and fruitless in the end. I was so stupid. I felt and continue to feel a great sense of shame and pity. I find it exhausting to continue packing or throwing away things. Sometimes I'll find something, think about it and crawl into bed and be done for the day. Only to wake up and attempt to do a little more.

I don't recognize the person I was before, but I lived through it and understand the depths of what it's like to be so enveloped into another soul that you lose yourself over it without even realizing it. It's like I'm looking through a window at somebody else's life. I saw everything, I felt everything, but it was as if it wasn't me; couldn't have been me.

I made a little more progress today. Little by little, this house in New Jersey will diminish, along with the bad memories of somebody who's chapter in my book had ended months ago. I can't wait until the day I see this place in my rear view mirror for the very last time.

[ego-morior]

XLIX

It's been about 4 months since I've posted anything on here. It's been a whirlwind of emotions, opportunities, and experiences along with new places and new people. I'll attempt to get you caught up. When my former roommate/partner left, he had taken the car as well. I found myself struggling to find rides to work and for about two weeks I was traveling to work via buses, trains and taxis. The cost of travelling was outweighing the amount I'd earn for a day's pay. However, I had an urge to continue because I didn't want to lose my job or the little income I had to support myself now that he was gone. It was taking a toll on me. I needed a vehicle quickly in order to maintain any sort of stability in my life. My world was spinning and I was losing myself fast to depression and anxiety. The phone call arrives in the afternoon of April 26th. My dad comes up with a solution for my woes. "I can buy you a plane ticket to Georgia, where your aunt lives. They have a restaurant there and she is 8 months pregnant. You can work at the restaurant and help her, they have a room there you can sleep in. You won't have to worry about money. You can save whatever you make and use the extra vehicle they have. If all goes well, the car might become yours. But if you stay there and work hard for a month, you can at least clear your mind and save some money by working hard and doing something productive." He waited for the kind hesitation I was known for, verbally weighing out my options and asking for more time to think things through before making a final decision, however I spit it out the moment he stopped talking. I said yes. May 3rd. I said goodbye to my pets, my home, my job, my coworkers and friends and everything I had and boarded a plane to Atlanta, Georgia without ever looking back. It was the most conscious, determined and drastic decision I had ever made in my life. I plunged into the unknown, ready to live with a family member I barely knew, in a place I had never been about to do a job I had never done. I left everything in the hopes of bettering my future.

[ego-morior]

XLVIII

When I awoke, I found him asleep at the bottom of the bed near my feet.

I dizzily went into the kitchen to find something to eat from not having eaten anything all day. The Taco Bell bag full of breakfast burritos turned my stomach so I searched for more. In the other room he awoke too, and watched a few videos on his phone. The commentators were getting on my nerves. Thoughts whirled in my mind, how could he just normally watch videos after everything he said to me in the car, after everything he vowed to take away from me so I could, ‘die in the little hole I found myself in.’ I took a deep breath. Walked to the bedroom and told he needed to do what he had already set out to do and pack his things and leave, at least for the night.

He hesitated. I told him again and he started packing his bags.

My mind starts racing just like earlier, ordering him to leave was going to be a death sentence to my livelihood. I wasn’t going to have a car to go to work, I wouldn’t have a job to support myself. I was going to rot with bills and far into my mind I worried about the fact that I was going to be alone again, with no one to help me.

I started bargaining. I pathetically told him that maybe he didn’t have to leave completely, that he could come back within the week. That I’ll take some vacation days for this week and that next week I can use the car. But he said no, careful this time to add anything that wasn’t a short answer probably to prevent the incident that happened that afternoon. He promised he would come back the next day.

But he never came.

He never came the following day, or the day after that.

Friday arrived. I made a little bag of clothes and set off to sleep at my mom’s so she could drop me off at work the following day. It was a sample of a meal I did not want to order, much less eat. Even if I was starving.