My View from the Mount

What Happens Now

I watch my surroundings more carefully when I walk down the street.
I always lock the doors when I get in my car.
My mom tracks my phone to make sure I'm okay.

I have anxiety attacks. Lots of them.
I read too much poetry.
I wear long-sleeved shirts, even in the summer.

It's always raining. Always. Even when it's not raining, it is.
The extra weight on my clothes, the tedious steps, the weight dragging my feet down.
The hatred of going outside, into the storm.

I'll spend twenty-four straight hours in bed.
Not moving, not getting up. Not even once.
Not sleeping, not eating, not watching Netflix.

My nights last about ten minutes each hour from 10 to 6.
Mostly tossing and turning, a glass of water, a bathroom break
A page of a book, an open second-story window, a constant green-light mind.

In lieu of washing extra dishes, I eat from pots and pans,
Meals of almonds and spinach (so there's not much cooking involved).
I see how many times I can wear my clothes before having to do the laundry.

I fall asleep clutching the stuffed rabbit I've had since I was born;
I dread the daylight.
I drink way too much coffee.

It's always cold and windy. I wear sweatshirts too much.
I read the same book four times in one day.
I don't drive alone anymore.

I'm going through the motions of each day.
Last week, my car was totaled.
It wasn't my fault, but I told the police that it was.

For the first time in my life, I can't find the words to describe what I'm feeling.
I'm searching for them. In books, in other people.
In my pockets, in my wallet, under my pillow. But they're not there.

Yesterday, my English teacher had to help me rewrite an entire essay;
"This just doesn't seem like something you'd write," she told me.
I didn't say anything. That's because I'm not myself anymore.

******
song -- "Staying Up," The Neighbourhood