Holeheart

Sensory Overload And Self Hatred At The Thrift Store

May 22nd, 2021

The dirty metal hangers scrape across the dirty metal rod. My hands pull each piece of clothing fast enough to get a good look, not long enough to consider pulling it down. It's not the act that gets my mind burning. Suddenly the shirt I slipped over my head this morning was the wrong choice; it's too tight, it's too small, it's too colorful. Suddenly the pants I buttoned don't fit right; the holes are too big, they don't hide my stomach enough, they don't match my shoes. The linoleum floor beneath me is honestly enticing, I want to drop dead most times. The cold comforts. The cold eases me. But everything burns to the touch. Dirty metal hangers scraping dirty metal rods is a newfound sound that makes my ears bleed. Ribbed shirts with jeans and sneakers is a newfound texture that makes my skin crawl. The smell of pre-loved clothing and strangers prior whereabouts is to nauseate me. The building I stand in becomes a trap. Doors and windows suddenly don't work. I stand still, leaning on my toes to see the top of your head somewhere along the isles. Half of me doesn't want to run to you, because all of me wants to be strong by myself. But the other half of me wants to join you in your calm state, because none of me wants to feel like this anymore. Sounds that I didn't mind before are too loud. Sun rays that felt warm before feel like fire on my face. Your touch that felt comforting before feels forced, irritated, and disappointed. Your eyes don't see my fingernails digging into my arm deep enough to draw blood. Your eyes don't see mine fighting back a breakdown coming on stronger than I can handle. Your eyes don't see the moment I shut down and move to the back seat. It's not me you're speaking to anymore. My own voice is unrecognizable. I don't know that girl in the rear view mirror. I don't know the hand reaching for mine from the drivers seat. I don't know anything. I don't know anything. I don't know anything. I don't want to breathe deeply. I don't want to eat something. I don't want to explain how I'm feeling. I don't want to be touched. I don't want to be kissed. I don't want to be me. Most of all I don't want to be me. And there's no better way to explain it. I get so uncomfortable in my own skin sometimes I just want to rip myself open, fall on the floor, and be something else. I'd be a dead body, I wouldn't be me. I'd be a carcass. I'd be a mass of meat. I'd be an oddity. I'd be a miracle. I'd be a freak of nature. I'd be anything else other than me-and suddenly I stop. My thoughts collect into one soft sphere. I hold it in my palms, and I am reminded where I am. There is no crowd suffocating me. You are next to me. The sphere in my hands is so heavy, but I can't hand it to you. You wouldn't know what to do with it. My palms push the sphere into itself, making it small and compact. I swallow the sphere and hear it hit the bottom with the rest of my shapes you aren't meant to hold. We leave the store hand in hand, but you would have never known what I would have given to become a shapeless form, unfamiliar to myself, unfamiliar to you. And if I was lucky enough, maybe I'd become something you could hold in your palms and accurately name it's shape.

R.K.