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The Crazy.
moose
ilovelife94
 I have gotten so good at faking it.

I fake it at work, with my coworker friends, with my boss. I fake it in public until I am safely shut behind the wheel of my car, where I feel alone even though I'm driving down a crowded 4-fucking-lane street, my favorite place to not fake it. Something about the anonymity of cars allures me, always has. Some days I fake it to myself, dressing in front of the mirror and smiling at my reflection and saying, "You can do this. This isn't so bad" I watch TV and read books and consume movies and podcasts and try to make sure there aren't too many moments of emptiness. I sleep a lot and eat a little, but why do I need to eat when all I do all day is sit? Or lie? It's weird because my bed is both my best friend and my worst enemy. I lie down in bed and both badly want to get up and do something, to shake it off, and at the same time I want to not move. At all. To let the bed cradle me, let the blankets hug me like Temple Grandin's "Squeeze Machine." Sometimes I work out, naked, in front of my television, working up a sweat and self-proud, feeling "accomplished." Like I could actually eat something for once. Because god knows thinking about losing whatever weight I've convinced myself I need to lose is better than thinking about faking it.
Sometimes I fake it with alcohol. I go out with the kids at work and talk too loudly and get buzzed and we talk about ourselves and the paper and we feel for a brief moment like we could be a family the way Plainsman used to be. Back in the good ole days that never really existed. 
Sometimes I think about other things in order to fake it. I get paranoid about the black guys that live in the apartment across from me (they know where I live now, I saw them the other day, OH NO THEY'RE GONNA RAPE ME) or the college guys who I believe live around here somewhere or the cop who may or may not live next door, I haven't decided. Sometimes I narrate the utterly mundane shit I do like cook myself an onion to eat for lunch because when I say it like the authors I read would say it in their books, it doesn't sound so mundane. It doesn't sound so lonely. It sounds...god, what's the word, kind of like martyr, where you're doing this for the betterment of the people if not yourself, you're doing this because it's right and proper and you are getting stronger because of it...it sounds artistic, it sounds like I am suffering for a reason, that I'm straining and striving and I'm alive and it's beautiful, there is beauty in the breakdown. "And then she pulled the onion from her cardboard pantry, feeling it's oniony paperskin under her fingers. She knew she would tear up when she started to cut. She found the sharp knife in the top drawer and laid it beside the sink. She turned the faucet on, pausing for a moment to listen to the water rushing. Where was it going? Down. She stuck the onion beneath the cool stream, separating the papery brown first layer. This is what she would eat for lunch." But that's just escapism, too, isn't it? Like the hours of TV I've watched and plan to watch. 
Music doesn't let me fake it; never really has. So I kind of cut that part out. Been listening to stuff I don't know much of. Can't listen to Josh Ritter. Too personal. Can't listen to the stuff that has a connection to people.
Maybe that's it. Maybe I am missing that connection to people. I feel disconnected from everyone. "No one in this world cares if I live or die." I've said that to myself during a number of my breakdowns through the faking, where I sob until I can't breathe and crawl into bed and try not to move for a few minutes. But that's so melodramatic. It doesn't fit. Of course there are people that would care. But they aren't here. Out of sight, out of mind. They aren't here, therefore, they don't exist. But that's dumb. I know that's dumb. I know they are still out there beyond this tiny bubble of South Carolina. I know they are sick of me whining about myself and calling my mom in tears and saying "wahhhh I wanna come home" and all that. Because they know I don't. I don't want to come home. If my mom showed up in a Uhaul tomorrow and said, "Alright, let's pack your things," I would look at her like she's crazy. And of course I wouldn't go. Because for whatever reason, maybe it's because we're American, we're taught that growing up and moving away and being alone is a natural part of the experience. "I've never been so alone, and I've never been so alive." We're supposed to go through this part and then there's this green pasture called "Self Sufficiency" and "Full-TIme Job" on the other side, and we are supposed to roll in that green grass and that smelly rich dirt and be happy. Of course "green grass" is a metaphor for MULAH. Money. Yayyyyy MONEY! And then next comes children, kids, whatever. And insurance bills.
And I don't have the answers. So many people bitch about this and I don't know if I'm happy or medically depressed or numb or foolish or if I'll be OK tomorrow or even in the next five minutes. The world keeps spinning, doesn't it? And all that typical stuff: our financial nation is in ruins and wars are being fought for damn good reasons and oh god the Middle East and people die of cancer every singlefuckingsecond and maybe the globe IS heating up, and one day the sun WILL die, and maybe the apocalypse is coming in October or whenever that dude in California predicted (for the third time), and maybe the Perks of Being a Wallflower movie WON'T suck, but really, there are worse things in the world than me feeling down and sad and lonely. Really, no one cares about my Facebook posts or why I hate Megan Robinson or that I unfriended Travis. Really I am small, and the world is big. Really, I hate the word "really" because I've been taught to and now every time I use it, I cringe. 
All I know is that every time I think about getting help, with the tumor (though it's really just a cyst, but I like calling it a tumor better, makes it sound and feel worse than it might actually be) on my back or with my brain or with anything, I think about our medical system. And then I cry again. UNIVERSAL HEALTH CARE.

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"It sounds...god, what's the word, kind of like martyr, where you're doing this for the betterment of the people if not yourself, you're doing this because it's right and proper and you are getting stronger because of it...it sounds artistic, it sounds like I am suffering for a reason, that I'm straining and striving and I'm alive and it's beautiful, there is beauty in the breakdown."

"Takin' your lumps," springs to mind, but I apologize if that's rude to say after your mention of a cyst.

Hahahaha no that's perfect.

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