Slurp, the sound echoes in my one bedroom, one bathroom apartment. The sound of my 3rd bowl of noodles. "You really eat a lot of noodles. Ever heard of ice cream?" my gay best friend, Zander, said. I chuckled.
12:00PM. Medicine time. 4 pills. "Take them. And forget about me." My brother, Max, yelled at me. The only problem; no one sees him, but me. That's why I was diagnosed with schetzofrenia.
I'm not skinny, because I eat. That's all I do. I eat. That's why I'm so fat and that's why I'm so lazy. Because I eat for comfort. I eat when I'm sad. I eat when I'm happy. No wonder I'm so awkward and I have low self esteem, I'm a binge eater. 2nd diagnosis.
I'm a struggling writer. I don't like messing up. I'll write five books, and then I'll shred them. I don't have any room for mistakes. Antelophobia. 3rd diagnosis.
I have low self esteem. I eat instead of facing my problems. I have very little friends, that aren't dreamt up from my imagination. Depression. 4th and last diagnosis.
4 pills. 1 person. No life outside of my mind. Manhattan, New York, is it nice to carry me along as Earth's liability?
YOU ARE READING
Jessica
General FictionA schizophrenic, depressed, antelophobic, binge eating middle aged struggling writer struggles to find her voice and her reason to live in Manhattan, New York.
