Tribulation [h.s]

06

"I know you're sick
Hoping you fix whatever's broken
Ignorant bliss
And a few sips might be the potion."

-

In the silent, empty room, I inhale, counting to three.

One, two, three.  My legs are trembling, my palms are sweaty, my mouth is dry, I'm dizzy, my stomach is in anxious knots, and my heart rate steadily increases.

I pause. Then, close my eyes and exhale. Four, five, six.

I have everything under control.

Trying to calm my mind and gain my bearings, I ask myself, what are five things I can see? I see black leather couches, dim overhead lights, scattered makeup brushes, and at least half a dozen vanities along with studio mirrors, those stupid fucking mirrors.

Four things I can touch? The chair I'm sitting on, my elbows leaning against one of the dark-stained vanities in the room, the fabric of the thin white robe wrapped around me, and my hair that I brush from my eyes.

Three things I can hear? Muffled music, an oscillating fan, and, if I listen closely, I can hear the seconds tick by on the clock hanging on the wall above the exit.

Two things I can smell? Floral perfume and lots of hairsprays.

Lastly, what's one thing I can taste? I can taste tequila on my lips. Speaking of tequila, I take another sip of my sweating drink.

My hand is trembling.

I have everything under control. 

Examining myself in this studio mirror, my chest becomes tight. Inhale, exhale. Breathe, Allie. It's so simple; just breathe.

Looking in the mirror for a long nightmarish moment, I realize I don't know who I'm looking at. This stranger seems to have stolen the air from my lungs. Frizzy dark hickory hair, tanned skin, blue eyes with dark under-eye bags, chapped lips, and acne. I should be looking at myself. I am looking at myself, but I don't recognize this woman. This is someone else. This is someone new.

I have everything under control.

What a lie. If I had control, I wouldn't feel this helpless and disconnected, and I sure as hell wouldn't be working here.

I have everything under control.

Humans are products of their own thoughts. It's strange when you think about it because the brain is an unreliable narrator. It tells lies much too often to always be a reliable source. However, because we are products of our own thoughts, it's no wonder why the brain believes lies so effortlessly.

I say I hate myself; my brain will echo back you're despicable. I say I'm not pretty; my brain will echo back you're ugly and worthless. I say I'm difficult; my brain says nobody will ever want you.

The lies we tell ourselves create a domino effect. We lie; our brains look for ways to reinforce that lie. The brain is so powerful that eventually, we become whatever lies we spewed until there is nothing but truth left. It's torture.

I have control. I have control. I have control.

Maybe that's the reason why I don't recognize myself. The woman I'm looking at is broken and bruised and built off of truth and old lies she once told herself.  She's a product of toxic environments and self-sabotage.

She's a nightmare. She's not what I want to be. So, I keep on lying to myself to reverse the damage that I've caused, hopefully. Ever heard of fake it till you make it? I guess I take that analogy quite literally. Still, I'm not sure if it's working just yet.