the girl...
here goes...
the girl got a bed in the psych ward. she slept, she smoked, she made arts and crafts, and she made things up. she told people that things were better than they appeared. she braided her hair every night before bed. she kept buying stuffed animals from the gift shop, they cluttered her room.
the girl would try to learn spanish. she would try to keep a journal. she would try to stop making jokes when she was in pain. she painted a t-shirt, a rug, a tote bag. she got out of bed every morning. she made her bed. she took the pills in the little paper cups.
there were too many pills and too many tears. she couldn't stop crying because she had learned to look in the mirror and she could see her reflection but not the point. she couldn't see the point of going on every day. she wanted the doctor to make it better.
the doctor said that he could give the shock therapy cure. she agreed. her parents and her boyfriend were against it and that was reason enough for her.
her memory got fuzzy. she felt fragile. she felt drugged. she went home from the hospital after three weeks but visited again for more shocks. the machine took her memories, all of them. the good and the bad started creeping out of her brain. her mind was sore.
work was a chore, a distraction. work was a chance to prove herself inadequate, inept, in another world. she stopped the shocks and she started more work. she left the boyfriend but kept him as a roommate. she worked more.
she started making burns on her arm. twenty round scars are still there. but the girl gets up every day. she updates her diary. she continues to search for something else. she finds happiness and she finds hurts. it's still important and it's impossible. she will keep on trying and trying and trying and trying...
the girl is tired. the girl is trying. the girl is me.
