My recycle bin overflowed with 1,107 un-deleted memories. 1,107 squares of snapshots; things I had once held dear. Things I finally complied together for one large purge. I felt lighter every time I tapped the "delete" button, clicked OK, and moved on. Sometimes I'd get caught up, and sit and stare at the pixels, arranged in such a way as to appear as a part of my past. If I stared close enough, the pixels broke down into abstract boxes, revealing nothing of beauty at its core; much like my true feelings behind the smile on my photo's face.
I had to get rid of them. I had been putting it off so long now; 17 iPhone picture backup's later I had too many thumbnails to search through. I'll do it another day. I'll do it another day. I'll do it another day.
I wondered how many times I would be deleting pictures of my past only to make room for pictures of my present.
My present remained relatively sunny; I now listened to the rain to help myself sleep at night. Every morning I'd wake up and attach my armor: a clear-headed helmet, a calm, controlled chest plate, shin guards to help me wade through worry, chain mail linked together with how many days since my last panic attack. I only had enough to cover one wrist, but I added new links every day.
I felt irrational doubt grip tightly onto my neck and prevent me from calling out. My world spun as I paced throughout my room, into the small room, back into my room, into the small room, check my phone, wring my hands, cry, check my phone, sit down, try to breathe, cry, pull at my hair, check my phone. Three times I replayed that vicious and counterproductive cycle. Three times I felt my resolve give out from underneath me, sending me sinking into my bed and gripping the sheets as I would thrust my head in between my legs and continuously tell myself that I was fine.
I was fine. I was fine. I was fine. I was fine. I was fine. I was fine. I was fine.
I was not fine.
I wasn't sitting on my bed anymore. I was sitting in the booth as Steak N Shake. I was sitting in her car. I was sitting and watching myself react the way I had. Sitting and listening to the way my heart beat so furiously, and all the words that wafted into my years simply added another match to the burning pit of anger in my stomach.
Why was I going back to this place?
I had no thumbnails to delete of that incident, but as soon as the bittersweet chime cut through my room I finally woke up.
Bed, comfortable clean sheets, freshly vacuumed floor. I love you, beautiful. No more of the faux-leather seats supporting my fleeting hope. No more of the commercially-styled booth where my present was dissected in front of me.
Delete. OK.
That had been the only incident where I doubted everything. And just as that night, I had no clue where it crept up from or why.
Often I'll sit at my kitchen table, and lay out the two sides of my mind. I'll make two piles of the photos for my neurological scrapbook.
She'll break your heart again.
It's not going to last.
There's nothing you can do now.
You look fat when you eat.
You can't wear that shirt unless you skip lunch.
You can't gain that weight back.
Rough edges, smudged colors, and even torn photographs stacked to one side, eager to get their page, permanently taped into the pictographic representation of my daily stream of consciousness. And oh how the stack kept growing.
You're going to hit that car.
You're going to die.
There's someone behind you.
They know you fucked that order up.
She'll break your heart again.
She's going to die.
I couldn't find the delete button. Even if I threw the pictures to the floor they'd still stare up at me, demanding attention. But I wanted to spend my time cutting out construction paper backdrops to go with my perfectly laminated portraits of well drawn out dreams and ideas.
The chapter would definitely be stronger written this way.
She looks at you like the world makes sense.
That surprise was so thoughtful.
That job seems better suited for you.
You can handle whatever happens.
She's not going to forget you.
You look great in that dress.
Neatly laid out, I struggled to come up with enough to fill out much of my scrapbook, and the empty pages would often gather with the tattered snapshots of what I couldn't seem to delete. I was tired of trying to befriend and understand, for no matter how closely I examined the pixels, I found nothing but invalid irrationality boxed up to look like a reality from far enough away. I understood that my brain worked mostly like a pointillist painting; stand back and you can see one picture, stand closer and the dots of yellowish doubt are what is mixing in with my calm blues. The green result seems a bit more sickly then. It's much easier for people to stand back and admire the dedication and beauty that comes from a steady hand, poking equal parts of negative and positive to keep equilibrium and produce a snapshot of an invisible disease. It's easier to look from afar because then they don't have to deal with dissecting the colors. I can't explain the way it feels to see the two colors separately, and yet keep myself from stirring in too much yellow. The world doesn't want a putrid green. But my hand keeps slipping, and the brush snubs away the blue too far. I know it's still there, but I can't reach it anymore. Instead what is left is an exasperated string of worries that tie themselves around my throat until I can barely choke out a "help".
The blue is right there, but I can't touch it. The snapshots of rationality are laminated after all; I can only get so close to feeling the smooth surface of the printed paper. But scrutinize them too much and all I will receive is the glare from the lights over the kitchen table, reminding me that it is much easier to look at the tattered, ugly, but familiar photographs of my irrational mind. I've been able to peel away the lamination on only a few pictures without damaging them, a process I've spent years at. I taped them into my scrapbook before they could be worn away by doubt, and join the overflowing stack on the floor.
