Alexis

Diciotto

Eighteen

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"And I will make Rabbah a stable for camels, and the Ammonites a couching place for flocks: and ye shall know that I am the LORD."

Ezekiel (25:5)

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Today was March tenth.

Eighteen years ago today, I was born.

Sadly.

Today, nausea woke me up.

It's how every morning has been.

My life just fucking sucks.

This year sucked.

In order, to the most recent:

I was cheated on.

My boyfriend left me because another girl was pregnant.

The date of conception was unaccounted for and close to when I broke up with my boyfriend.

I've been feeling sick with no actual fever.

My dad was murdered.

I got a concussion.

I couldn't sleep.

The rest of my biological family disowned me.

My doctor wouldn't clear me.

I had to go to my dad's funeral.

I saw dad's murderer at dad's funeral.

My body has been destroyed.

I ruined all of my self-respect.

Safe to say I've hated life. I hated myself.

I've isolated myself since I last saw Vincent. I reread all of his notes. I thought I sounded good but I had no one to run it by. I only went downstairs for moments at a time to get the bare minimum of food in the morning although I only puked everything up. I wanted to ask Dr. Williams about my sickness but I didn't. When he saw me four days ago, he asked how I was and how my arms were. He told me the same thing: eat and get some rest.

Today– I wouldn't go downstairs. I wouldn't reread my notes. I will do nothing. I will rot in bed and pray for death. Why can't I die on my birthday? Who did that? Edgar Allen Poe? William Shakespeare? Some famous person. . . .

I didn't want to celebrate today but when I heard a knock on my door at 8:07 a.m., I knew other people would. I turned in bed, not bothering to get it. I wanted them to get the hint. I would not answer anything today.

My dad always did something for my birthday. Whatever it was, he'd make sure plans were made and he would be there. Maybe he knew that birthdays weren't guaranteed? I didn't, at those times, think that it was something that could be taken that quickly. Come January tenth, my dad wouldn't be here to celebrate his fifty-fourth birthday.

It seemed like such an odd concept until now. Wait– no– rather, it seemed like I knew it was a concept, a very basic one but it seemed. . . it seemed. . . I didn't even know.

What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

No.

No, it fucking doesn't.

I was supposed to die. Clinically die.

I was clinically alive and functioning (most of the time) but I wasn't feeling.

I couldn't keep taking these punches but I needed to–

The knock sounded again until I heard the door open. I kept still in bed, I just closed my eyes. I hoped whoever came in would see that I was "sleeping" and have the decency to leave me alone.