The Days I Can't Get Through On My Own

I wanted to be sixteen today. I woke up in the dark and I was cold and my eyes were red and my hair was too big because I fell asleep with it wet. I'd been having a dream that I didn't want to remember, so I stumbled out of bed, threw on a hoodie, and took Vegas on a walk.

It was cool outside and that made me smile, but my throat was raw and my stomach was sick. I wanted to throw my comforter around my shoulders, shuffle down the hallway and crawl into my mom's bed. But I'm grown up now and I live in Arizona. I have to take care of myself and I can't afford to miss class.

I was crying by the time I got home. I found myself feeling childish, and decided to make breakfast. There were twenty-five eggs in the fridge. I don't know why we have so many, or when they'll be eaten. I pulled three out and set them on the counter. One rolled to the ground and cracked. That has to be some sort of bad omen.

I made three eggs and two pieces of toast, and put them on a big plate. I usually eat off the small plates, in a transparent, self-destructive attempt to eat less. But today, I made three perfect eggs, slightly burnt, with lots of pepper and lots of hot sauce. I put too much sugar in my tea and only drank half of it.

I put on a pair of sweats. I said ugly things to my reflection. My skin had taken a beating over the weekend because I drank too much and didn't sleep enough.

I wanted to curl up on the couch and watch movies, call my mom, and cry about being sick. But I got in the car and went to school, listened to an old CD and wished that I had someone to sing with.

I went to class but didn't pay attention. Instead, I decided to be Amy Winehouse for Halloween and looked for pictures of her tattoos. I found a wig and made a list of what I needed to buy to finish my costume. I started looking up juice fasts, because I want to be actual Amy Winehouse for Halloween, not Fat Amy Winehouse. I know that Amy Winehouse weighs around a hundred pounds. I will not get to a hundred pounds. Not by Halloween. But I'm okay with losing twelve pounds. I figure that I can lose around that much weight if I go on a juice fast for seven days. I would have to start cutting down...next week. Looking at the logistics of everything, I decide not to do it. I can limit my caloric intake, but I hate cutting out sugars. And after I finish the juice fast, I would have to work my way back up to solid food. And that doesn't sound like fun. I vow to run every day until Halloween and double my ab exercises. I hate Arizona for being so hot, because I can't run when I get home from school.

I went home and put on a skirt and heels and my favorite pair of earrings. It's a bad habit. I always look my best when I feel my worst.

I had a meeting for a group project. We started at Xtreme Bean. I grabbed a delicious blood orange tea and loaded it up with sugar. Six packets, like always. I drove to Audra's house with the windows down, listening to a mix CD that someone who loves me once made. I'm happy.

My group finished our project and I left. I get lost on the way home and I'm angry at myself. I swing by Tempe Marketplace to visit Alicia. I decide to stay, knowing that if I go home, I will lay on the floor and watch movies all afternoon. I wander over to Pier 1 and buy candles because they're on sale. I spend an hour dreaming about how I will decorate my apartment when I live on my own. I imagine that I will cover my walls in prints of Klimt and Magritte.

My stomach is empty and I like the way that feels. I consider skipping lunch. I don't want to eat. I bribe myself with pizza. Even when I hate the way my body looks, I still love pizza. I wander over to World Market and look at the wines. I can buy them now. I can't find a Moroccan wine and I'm mad. I see sangria mix and I laugh, remembering the time when Sasha, Shannon and I bought two giant jugs of sangria at LIDL. And then I'm sad, because I miss them.

I think too much about France. I'm on the verge of deciding not to go back. My focus in going back is fatuous. I'm well aware of that. But I hate closing doors, so I leave this one open for now.

I went to Barnes and Noble. Books have always been my dearest friends. I love everything about bookstores. The hushed reverence. The air conditioning. I spend too much time looking for a book that I will be able to reread. I want a book that will stay with me, burrow into my skin, and affect my worldview. I balance on the balls of my feet, touching every book on the very bottom shelf in the biography section. I pick up a collection of essays by Latino writers.

I call my family, but they are all busy. I feel neglected, forgotten.

I buy a slice of pizza and read my book. Things are good.

When I get home, there is a package from my mom. Pictures of our trip in Europe. I look through them and don't know whether to laugh or cry. I'm amazed at the richness of colors in her photos. I haven't seen colors like that in a long time.

Today has been a struggle since my eyes opened. My emotions change more quickly than I expect. I hate anyone who gets too close to me and I hate being alone. The tiny things upset me and I forget to care about the things that I should probably find important.

The only reason I can make it through is because Someone is fighting for me. He knows I'm too weak to fight for myself