“Can anybody hear me? The silence is deafening. Why do you feel so far away?” – Meredith Andrews, Can Anybody Hear Me
My mind is racing. My body is shaking. I just keep thinking, “I am broken.” I am damaged goods. That was the core belief I was working on with Marc in the white testing dance journal in 2005 with the bubbles.
I’ve been thinking about Tim’s email, what to send back. I should’ve known. I didn’t follow the rules. (Damn I wish that song would stop.) My body is shutting down. I am broken.
There are many reasons, besides my age, someone like Tim wouldn’t want me. There are a plethora of red flags. We don’t buy broken merchandise. I don’t buy things with marred packaging. I certainly don’t want something broken. Yet, that is what I have to offer.
I am broken. My body, my heart, my mind. I have some unknown neurological movement disorder that makes me twitch and jerk like a freak. I can’t predict my level of functioning. I live with my mom and I don’t drive and don’t want to. I have insurmountable debt. I’m scared of people. I’m trying really hard not to be. I go to doctors and groups and therapy. I have mental illnesses. It’s easier to say, “I’m crazy.” People just brush it off. But most of the time I’m not crazy, just sick.
I don’t take vacations. I’ve never been on a vacation. If I mention a vacation I’m talking about spending time in the hospital. I have seen and learned a lot there, experienced. It changes you to know the system so well.
People ask how I am and I say, “Okay.” But I’m not okay… I am broken. I feel overwhelmed and hurt and scared and LONELY, and happy and sad and pissed. And I don’t know what to do with it because people don’t buy broken. The ones who do want a discount or they want to fix me. But I don’t want to be fixed. I want someone to love me for my brokenness, to love me just because.
I can’t change that I’m an old person stuck in a young person’s body that’s failing, that I love Play-Doh and touching things and all sorts of music, that I make seemingly random associations that make perfect sense only to me, or that I appreciate the little things. That’s just me. I eat hot dogs and pick dandelions and cry. I stay up all night, rock myself to sleep, and give the homeless guy on the corner my last $20 – just because. I give everything I have because I’ve got nothing to lose – only hope. And the hope comes back. It’s just a bit weaker every time.
I hate going through that process:
Don’t get excited about this person. They will hurt you.
No, he seems safe enough, even nice.
Be careful, Michelle.
No, I’m gonna take a chance.
(Feel hopeful and excited for a time – then the crash)
See, I told you they weren’t safe. You should’ve listened. You’re broken. Remember? You don’t deserve him. You don’t deserve to be happy.
You’re right. If only I’d followed the rules.
But I did. I followed the one that says take chances and risks but know that you WILL get burned. I just forgot about the burn part…
Sudden exhaustion & need for more biscuits and gravy.