There's a bipolar worm in my coffee and she has long suicidal shower thoughts
There's a bipolar worm in my coffee and she has long suicidal shower thoughts that make no sense, yet are the epitome of wisdom.
She quotes my son "Oh, my cunt! I have a great idea" and goes on a rollercoaster ride from the silliest of thoughts to the secret behind our existence. But every time she starts to burp out an idea, it slips, and she gets mad and begins the longest of rants; all in my head.
The other day, she threw it all in my face: It's not that you want to die that's making you suffer, quite the contrary; it's that you want to live. It hurt so much to hear the truth put out this bluntly that I almost slit my throat immediately. Next, I was giving this massive it's-not-freedom-from;-it's-freedom-to and we-shouldn't-be-victims-even-when-victimized trends a chance, reading one too long article about how we shouldn't care about what holds us captive and instead, focus on what we yearn to do.
I finish my white-man-status pursuit with an article about how we linger to the victim status, which holds us back from healing. The bitch worm then slapped me in the face, "Oh my fucking cunt, are you trying to be a Karen now, Sarah?! Go meet them deadlines so that you don't lose your living."
Why is the warm so mean? Why can't she let me buy white-man thoughts designed for my consumption?
“And what's with all that macho 'You're strong and brave' put out as feminist whatever? Why is your value judged by some misogynistic standard? And why do you keep on buying in?"
Silenced, I shake my head, hoping she'd leave. But the worm has super powers, she insists "You're no chicken for not wanting to tell your story." I let out a sigh of relief.
But this is one diabolical sly worm, she shits on my parade, "You're still a chicken though. You can't voice out your anger that all you want to do is say how what happened to you made you feel; how despite the fact that it doesn't define you, it made things different, thus making you different."
Ugh, I'm getting homicidal now.
She interrupts, "But it's OK to be a chicken anyways. Now go make me an omelette, you useless bitch."
I spill my coffee in the sink. The silly worm leaves my coffee as I do. And jumps into my brain. "Did you know that some woman made her husband a sandwich, served it to him, then killed him before he could eat it?"
I feel scared. This worm is insane. And I could really lose her help; I'm insane enough on my own. I reason with her. She says "Fine, you're stupid anyways. I'm going to sleep."
I count to 10, take a deep breath, fix my kid some food, then start to sob uncontrollably. I go to the bathroom to have some privacy. I watch some porn and detachedly cum. I'm not sure if that's because I'm on a full bipolar low or if the porn was a lot like all the awkwardly bad sex hetero humans have. And all the good sex hetero humans have doesn't seem to make up for the bad that sometimes, with triggers all around, I just don't want to be touched.
I feel queerer these days; contemplating on whether things would have been different for me if I had had the chance to better connect with my queer side earlier in my life.
"Hahaha, are you coming out now?" The evil bitch woke up and she's back to sodomise. Joke's on you, stupid worm. I came out a long time ago.
"You're quite funny. I'm glad you believe that. Tell me, Karen-wanna-be, wasn't this one good example of the freedom-from/the freedom-to fake dilemma?"
My heart is now burning with hatred for this worm.
My kid cries for help and saves me. It's something silly, but I comfort him anyways. He feels better. Then he starts fake crying. I ask him why he's being overdramatic in the most understanding tone I could summon. It's fun to be overdramatic, he says. The nasty worm interrupts again, "now we know who he takes after."
I jump to my defense. I'm grieving, you evil bitch. "What is it exactly that you're grieving?" She interrogates. The cynical tone could not be missed.
My mom, my dad, life as I know it, my ability to work, to have good sex, to be fun to be around. I'm not fun anymore, not even for me. And my hypomania, that too I grieve."
The worm tears my brain as she grows in size, but for some reason lowers her voice whispering "Take your meds."
I have nothing to say. I have nothing to think. My brain is now void. There's nothing there but a rusty shade of grey. "I guess you're searching for that old 'the meds will make you fat' excuse in your vacant head," she eyes me with a disgusted look that screams "How pathetic, really!"
I find myself defensive again. Do you know how people react to weight gain? My whole adult life can be summed up in two poles "Why did you let yourself gain so much weight? and "Why are you crazy? Take your meds, psycho."
And those are the kindly concerned friends.
I just need to fuck up, worm. Why can't I fuck up anymore? I'm dwelling under pressure. I'm buried under heaps of responsibilities and I can't catch a breath. Why can't you just give me a break? After all, you're only a fragment of my imagination. I made you. Please don't make me kill you. I have enough guilt. The cross on my back is already too heavy to bear.
She weeps. I feel awkward. Why do I always end up in the comforting shoes?
I'm not sure why you're crying now, worm, but it's ok not to be ok, I say, trying to end the situation as fast as I could.
She senses my discomfort. It pleases her. "It's because you already fucked up but you don't know yet that I'm crying," she murmurs with a half smile. "But it's ok not to be ok, Sarah. You lost a lot and are shackled by a lot. Fucking up is the human thing to do."
She grows big arms. She hugs me. She warns me what an evil place for me this country is. She finds it very distasteful how a purely pedophilic crime was turned into a conversation about sexual harassment between adults. "I can understand how this shit is scary. I'm just a worm and I don't even exist, but I find it horrifying, too."
I feel calmer that someone understands. But I'm now all jaded and weary. Then something unexpectedly sad occurs. The worm leaves with no goodbyes. My brain cells are back and fully functioning. I feel electric waves running all over the place. I need to shut it down again. Where did all the grey blank walls go?
I keep rushing around my brain, searching for the turn-off button, to no avail.
I finally find a goodbye note from my foe and friend saying "It's OK not to be OK."
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