The third button on my shirt has fallen out. I want to take the taxi in the morning because the morning commute is overwhelming. I fantasize about cutting off all my hair. I cry at my desk. The cup of instant noodles from last night lie on my desk in the morning. Books, clothes, biscuit crumbs, weight plates lie scattered on the floor. This is how I excuse myself from dealing with the world. People say they notice a change.
I am watching Peter Schrader’s Mishima. I watch the stutterer reach out, his hand quivering over a naked breast. She represents beauty that will forever remind him of his ugliness. I can only take the film in painful doses.
I put up a bible quote above my monitor to encourage myself. “Be strong and courageous” How long before I pull that down? No, it is time (yet again) to pick myself up. I sit tentatively on my rower and put up a 20 min 2:30 row. By no means challenging, but it is a start. The soreness in my thighs surprises me. At night, I run at the reservoir with war of ages screaming in my ear. “Is there hope for me. For I am broken” It washes gloriously over me as I lumber through the cloying humidity.
Little victories provide glimpses of my former self. I drank some water, then decided that I needed to refill my water bottle. I wondered if I really needed to call. Finally, I took a deep breath and picked up the phone.
I am distant, I am unconnected. It is irritating to see the same in her. She mumbles. I ask and she does something on the computer before replying. It is a power display. I ask her for help, but she tells me to do it myself. Instead of reaching out, I get angry.
I have a public and a private reason. The public reason to show off unhesitatingly to the world. The private reason to keep close to my heart.