Amelia meant everything to me.
Unfortunately, for someone who found meaningless meaning in nothing and everything all at once, knowing what to do with that ‘meaning everything to me’ put forth a very difficult predicament.
I’d wound up missing therapy because I’d felt too sick to move. Luckily I made it to the toilet before I exploded upon myself; after that I laid on the living room floor, contemplating whether I’d call into work as well and risk the meager amount of money I’d make but certainly needed or simply go in and risk having to leave.
I chose the latter, luckily, because I woke up to Emily coming home from errands with more than I expected or even deserved.
She’d gotten me tee shirts, pants, even socks (which I’m sure were to the benefit of everyone in the household, as my feet had begun to smell like rot), and I couldn’t express my gratitude enough. Hell, I felt so happy because of what she’d done for me that when she came by my job later to drop off something else I’d actually smiled.
I smiled, at work. Smiled. It was weird, I liked it. Anyways.
I’d given up on asking for pictures of Amelia. Stefany had clearly been too soured on me to even dignify me with responses anymore and if I wasn’t mistaken she’d even blocked my number again.
She’d probably gone on to tell everyone how much of a worthless father I was, and it was true. I provided no worth, aside from the genetics I’d felt I’d blessed Amelia with, but even those thoughts made me feel sick.
I thanked Emily for the clothing, because if she hadn’t, as I never expected she would have, I would’ve devised a plan to steal them, in some way or another, simply to appear clean and not smell disgusting.
“Don’t steal,” she said, “you’re better than that.”
I liked hearing it, and at once had thought I was. Being broke changed you though. No one hired you if you were poor or looked poor, and no one usually cared to help either.
Hell, I’d even imagined myself grateful if I were to be caught stealing; at least I’d have guaranteed meals, a bed to sleep in, books to read, and a sense of regularity. I already never got to see my daughter. What really would’ve changed for the worst?
I avoided the answer.
I missed my daughter. I couldn’t remember what she felt like in my arms. What I did remember I was sure would be different, if and when I ever saw her again.
People are so quick to assure you that you will see someone again. That the worst won’t happen, but I’d almost swear, if not even promise you, they’re usually wrong.
It feels terrible to tell the truth in those sort of circumstances. That you don’t know the answer. Things you wish you didn’t know the answer to.
My breath felt hot and full of wrath that night. Nothing really comforted me. Not the alcohol. The xanax was already gone. The antidepressants were missing and I’d somehow misplaced the amphetamines.
Drugs didn’t even sound like the answer.
I tried lying to myself. I found a razor blade and cut into my legs, accidentally pricking my finger in the process, carving the words “I LOVE PAIN” into my leg.
It didn’t work. The alcohol made the bleeding even harder to stop, so I sat for hours applying pressure to attempt to force a constant flow of dying life to cease.
It felt all too real and I fucking hated it.
Stefany had said she’d let me see Amelia if I could prove I was going to treatment for depression.
The problem was, I didn’t think that was actually what she wanted.
Stefany just wanted me in her control. I couldn’t be controlled. I wouldn’t be, I refused it, and even when I tried with all that I had to submit I found myself rejecting every demand.
I felt helpless.
Hopeless.
I wondered how easy the bible Manny gave me would be to read covered in blood.
How metal.
I was really sick of the world.
I was really sick of everything.
I longed to collapse into someone’s arms and cry.
I remembered Merry saying her favorite place to nap would be in Jesus’ arms.
I had mocked the idea and first, yet here I was again, miserable, unhappy.
Misery loves company. Merry loved Jesus.
I was miserable.
She appeared merry.
I sought company.
She sought Jesus.
I was struggling to have faith in anything, again.
God, help me.
I’m sorry for making fun of you.
I’d rest in Jesus’ arms.
Unfortunately, for someone who found meaningless meaning in nothing and everything all at once, knowing what to do with that ‘meaning everything to me’ put forth a very difficult predicament.
I’d wound up missing therapy because I’d felt too sick to move. Luckily I made it to the toilet before I exploded upon myself; after that I laid on the living room floor, contemplating whether I’d call into work as well and risk the meager amount of money I’d make but certainly needed or simply go in and risk having to leave.
I chose the latter, luckily, because I woke up to Emily coming home from errands with more than I expected or even deserved.
She’d gotten me tee shirts, pants, even socks (which I’m sure were to the benefit of everyone in the household, as my feet had begun to smell like rot), and I couldn’t express my gratitude enough. Hell, I felt so happy because of what she’d done for me that when she came by my job later to drop off something else I’d actually smiled.
I smiled, at work. Smiled. It was weird, I liked it. Anyways.
I’d given up on asking for pictures of Amelia. Stefany had clearly been too soured on me to even dignify me with responses anymore and if I wasn’t mistaken she’d even blocked my number again.
She’d probably gone on to tell everyone how much of a worthless father I was, and it was true. I provided no worth, aside from the genetics I’d felt I’d blessed Amelia with, but even those thoughts made me feel sick.
I thanked Emily for the clothing, because if she hadn’t, as I never expected she would have, I would’ve devised a plan to steal them, in some way or another, simply to appear clean and not smell disgusting.
“Don’t steal,” she said, “you’re better than that.”
I liked hearing it, and at once had thought I was. Being broke changed you though. No one hired you if you were poor or looked poor, and no one usually cared to help either.
Hell, I’d even imagined myself grateful if I were to be caught stealing; at least I’d have guaranteed meals, a bed to sleep in, books to read, and a sense of regularity. I already never got to see my daughter. What really would’ve changed for the worst?
I avoided the answer.
I missed my daughter. I couldn’t remember what she felt like in my arms. What I did remember I was sure would be different, if and when I ever saw her again.
People are so quick to assure you that you will see someone again. That the worst won’t happen, but I’d almost swear, if not even promise you, they’re usually wrong.
It feels terrible to tell the truth in those sort of circumstances. That you don’t know the answer. Things you wish you didn’t know the answer to.
My breath felt hot and full of wrath that night. Nothing really comforted me. Not the alcohol. The xanax was already gone. The antidepressants were missing and I’d somehow misplaced the amphetamines.
Drugs didn’t even sound like the answer.
I tried lying to myself. I found a razor blade and cut into my legs, accidentally pricking my finger in the process, carving the words “I LOVE PAIN” into my leg.
It didn’t work. The alcohol made the bleeding even harder to stop, so I sat for hours applying pressure to attempt to force a constant flow of dying life to cease.
It felt all too real and I fucking hated it.
Stefany had said she’d let me see Amelia if I could prove I was going to treatment for depression.
The problem was, I didn’t think that was actually what she wanted.
Stefany just wanted me in her control. I couldn’t be controlled. I wouldn’t be, I refused it, and even when I tried with all that I had to submit I found myself rejecting every demand.
I felt helpless.
Hopeless.
I wondered how easy the bible Manny gave me would be to read covered in blood.
How metal.
I was really sick of the world.
I was really sick of everything.
I longed to collapse into someone’s arms and cry.
I remembered Merry saying her favorite place to nap would be in Jesus’ arms.
I had mocked the idea and first, yet here I was again, miserable, unhappy.
Misery loves company. Merry loved Jesus.
I was miserable.
She appeared merry.
I sought company.
She sought Jesus.
I was struggling to have faith in anything, again.
God, help me.
I’m sorry for making fun of you.
I’d rest in Jesus’ arms.
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