I am the girl who gets drunk on wine with her boyfriend and shows up to work the next day in a lace dress and combat boots, proud of the hickeys. I am the girl who drops acid at music festivals accompanied by four of my guy friends. I am the girl who scored an internship with a 0.02% acceptance rate. I am the girl who reads a dozen books a month.
I loathe the girl who cradles her own torso in the shower, rocking in a desperate attempt to comfort herself as the thought of adding conditioner to her hair so overwhelms her she has to sit down until the pressure of the hot water on her abdomen grows painful. I loathe the girl who calls in sick to that same internship, one she loves, because she is utterly incapable of getting out of bed. I loathe the girl who becomes a shell of her vibrant self as the bleakness descends like the Iron Curtain itself - blocking out any sliver of joviality and extinguishing every spark of energy until I am a corpse laying on my bed with solely the hope of sleep to comfort me since my body has waged war on mind by completely eliminating any hope of the temporary unconsciousness slumber can provide.
But rather than say this, I sit back with a steaming cup of coffee and a pack of cigarettes and banter with my inner dialogue until I’ve beaten it into submission and my personal periphrases have sufficiently spun my cognizance into an abyss, thus providing transitory respite. Because if I can’t find a way to temporarily obliterate it, the pain constantly undulates against me with the relentlessness of the ocean itself.