Sometimes, I feel as though I am only word of mouth.

 

I have spent over a lifetime listening to virtual strangers ask me if I remember the apartment, the house, the toy, the movie, the book, the class, the person.

 

An apartment that was always messy, the house cheap, the toy broken, the movie too long, the book worn and stained, the class always so young, the person always myself, always what I didn’t want, always alone, always second, always there. Or here. I cannot remember.

 

Sometimes, I feel as though I am only pills.

 

Only the bottle of ibuprofen thrown up at 3 in the morning, only heart medication and my mother, only what I used to stare at in the medicine cabinet when I didn’t want to anymore, only antidepressants and everyone a pharmacist.

 

Everyone a want to get better, everyone a reminder that I still need these pills, that I cannot function without them, that I still haven’t even begun. Everyone a longing for me to be done already, for my epidemic of existence to tone it down a little and my mother a quarantine. A keeper for my self-esteem, just another reminder that I do not belong, that it is not her fault, that I am only a wonderful actress.

 

Sometimes, I feel as though I am an actress.

 

One of the first adults to confront me about my self harm told me that I act every day, that everything I say is a charade, it is just practice for a final performance, one that I am already prepared for.

 

And though I know now that I am only a character in a play I have yet to stop acting. I have yet to stop wanting to be only the character that has brought me success. Only the character that everyone knows me by, the only character that I am proud of.

 

And isn’t that just like the creature, returning to the house that feeds it. Returning the prescription to sender, returning the doctor’s note to my mother’s drawer, returning myself in hopes of getting my father’s money back. Money that belongs to a hospital somewhere, maybe. My sisters, maybe. Anyone who needs it for a serious issue, who won’t spend it on refills for the prescription they have not even gotten yet.

 

Sometimes, I feel as though I am someone else.

 

Someone who doesn’t exist. Someone who can just close their eyes and be nothing.

 

I always used to feel like I would just wake up and be another person. That all of this was just a dream. I guess that it what having a story-book life feels like. It feels like “unbelievable”. Feels like the words “long story,” feels like omitting from everyone you do not want sympathy from. Which is to say. It feels like omitting from everyone. Even yourself, sometimes.

 

When I try to find the right way to say everything, I realize that there isn’t one. That the only way to describe it is with miscellaneous words that once existed.

 

Which is to say, miscellaneous words that I do not remember.