Me? i know why.
i shuffle around flatbush ave- 9:17, Tuesday, shift my weight at mt prospect straddling monkey bars that paul zolezzi hung from a week ago. i flip through messages of the i’m just going to stay here. you didn’t do anything wrong variety. crawl up inside the blue slide- the motion of flame to pipe is one i haven’t rehearsed since high school. in and out. in and out. inhale exhale. in and out like in that west hollywood hotel room in january. this is going to be the last time i ever see you he said.
so it was.
I begin snorting Xanax in neat little lines off of my algebra book before dinner shortly after my 15th birthday. My mother will stare inquisitively at me over a full plate of chicken and mashed potatoes that I push around the plate but never eat as I unsuccessfully try to keep myself head upright. I am moody and uninterested in casual banter. Every question asked will be met with a one word answer and I wait till she is not looking to dump the contents of the plate into a napkin that will meet my bedroom garbage can shortly after. I don’t have an eating disorder but the act of eating is a chore for me that derive no instant gratification from and consequently I decide I have no use for it. I am temporarily unable to lift my head and spend hours staring at the ceiling being agitated by any slight sound I hear. The sound of a chirping cricket will propel me into a rage of kicking the walls in the tiny perimeter of my bedroom in an effort to silence it. Eventually I stumble into a Volvo and force myself to breed a casual conversation with my best friends mother, who like mine, is completely oblivious. (november, 2000)