What a week!
Since we first met(yes, you).
Eight days ago.
This morning I am anxious and writing from the desk of my office, at work: a herculean feat, the anxiety-less will not understand; sandbags of weight, pulling at my dominant hand… still I type in an attempt to collect my thoughts. I take half of a Xanax, which was already broken in the small zip-lock bag.
Last night was a bad night.
Should I break another? It is the last one in my stash and I am still five days away from my first therapy appointment.
I wore lipstick yesterday, the kind that doesn’t come off without merciless attempts. I spent the evening biting and gnawing at the skin, without remorse. Today, they are red and sore and soft.
I started chipping at the black nail polish last night while on the phone for an hour with a man. Today, I pile layer, upon layer to cover the chips, the tips: the drying polish creates new ridges which only the diligent eye will penetrate–and it is not his.