Fight or Flight
Mornings. Aren't They Just a Bitch?
Every morning, when I wake up, I take a shower. Before the alarm that wakes me up for the shower, I have another alarm; every morning I get up to the first alarm and think if I have any last minute homework to do on the computer, or homework for first period. If I do, I take care of it, because for some reason I can actually do homework in the last minute rush of the morning. If I don’t I just go back to sleep. Then there’s alarm number 2 which tells me that I need to shower. Before I shower, everyday, I take off my clothes and stare at myself in the mirror while the water heats up, and everyday I tell myself I need to diet, I need to try harder at getting into shape. After showering, I lay down again, because I’m just that unwilling to start the day. The third alarm of the day is what wakes me up now.
I love the mornings, and I hate the mornings. It’s so hard to make myself get up, to face the day; it’s like motivating myself to beat the shit out of myself. But on the flip side it’s the only time I can do anything, it’s when I have free time before my brain wakes up and tells me just how much I suck. Every fucking day I lay there for 10 to 15 minutes telling myself why I have to get up. I think about the consequences of not going to school the same way I think about the consequences of not doing my homework. Then, the fourth alarm of the day rings. I’m just that used to this.
It feels like my life’s just one big bad habit as I lay on my bed waiting for the alarm. It feels like every breath is another bitten fingernail, every footstep is just another picked booger.
My life is just convenient enough for me to keep living.
Ring. Ring. Ring. God damnit.
I get up and think about food, it doesn’t sound great. I’m already dressed, and my hair is usually a last minute thing to do in the car vanity mirror, so I’m pretty much ready.
I open up my sock drawer and pull out a pill bottle, the kind that isn’t bad enough to be prescription but still dangerous enough to merit a warning label and childproof cap. “Lipomax” the bottle reads, “Do not exceed three pills in a 24 hour period.” So I take three.
They’re diet pills if you didn’t figure that much out, and like most people I started them because I’m insecure about my weight. I stay on them because I still am, and because of the side effects. “Jitters, racing heart, dizziness, and severe headache may occur” Or at least that’s how the bottle pitches it, and it’s usually enough to get me through the worst of the day. It’s a distraction; it’s the energy to actually have the confidence to actually attempt to handle things. At least that’s how I look at it.
One thing about being a compulsive worrier is, I plan ahead to much. Like now? I’ve got 45 minutes before my mom needs to leave for work: aka my ride. I have to get up this early to make sure she gets up to make sure I’m not late. I’m rarely not late anyway.
I turn on the TV. If I had to come up with something I’m grateful for it would be Tivo. This way I get to watch any shows I like without battling for the TV control or sitting in the living room for hours, I just hit record and watch it whenever everyone else is gone or asleep. Between my dad and little sister, I don’t get a chance during normal viewing hours anyway.
Browsing through I hit the OK button on a concert I recorded, some big weekend fest in Britain or Germany, but filled with American bands because Europe is just so much more artistic for them to play or some shit. I fast forward through commercials.
On stage, it’s one of the hottest girls I’ve ever seen, and 3 other dudes on instruments in the much darker background. She’s got this crazy red hair and a body that screams, “I spend an unrealistic amount of time at the gym,” but she still sings the angsty teenage lyrics that every screaming girl in the audience, and me, wants to hear. That’s what being an emotional guy means these days, the sensitivity of a preteen girl. All those lyrics about loving someone and being dumped, the ones you know aren’t written from any sort of experience. Like really? I’d sell my kidney just too high five you, the only way you were dumped is if you cheated like twice a week on him/her.
I fast forward through some commercials. That stupid lush that only has a career because of autotune. I fast forward. Some shirtless black dude with abs I’d kill for. I fast forward. A slow acoustic song… sung by a guy in a sleeveless leather jacket with a pink Mohawk. I fast forward. It’s over. It asks me if I want to delete it and I hit yes.
I don’t know why I record these things in the first place.
I check my iPod and see I’ve got 20 minutes before I need to leave. As I get up to nag my mom I can feel the diet pills taking effect. I’ve got an unnatural spring in my step, like I’ve had 10 cups of coffee, or, in this case, the 3 pill of equivalent of.
“Hurry up!” I yell and pound on the door, knowing that my dad is sleeping. If I can’t sleep why should he?
When did I become this I’m bitter?
“We’re not going to be late!” My mom’s voice says through the door in a sharp hissing whisper.
But of course, we are. Like we always are. I should have become at least a little bit desensitized to it by now, but I’m not. I’ve got my music loud and my foot is tap tap tapping against my backpack the entire 30 minute ride.
When we drive, to school, to the store, to anywhere, it’s always the same. I listen to my music, and my mom sits next to me and talks. I don’t know if she’s just venting or just can’t stand the silence, but it’s pretty obvious I’m not listening. When she wants to say something important she taps me on the knee and I pull out a headphone just long enough to hear her spit out a few words of relevance.
“You have a D in art you know.” She says after touching me on the knee.
“And you care about my art grade? It doesn’t count towards a core class college GPA or anything.” I put my headphone back in. I’m always irritated when I wake up an hour early to make sure we’re on time and she can’t get her ass out of bed in time.
She pulls the headphone out of my ear and says, “So? That’s no excuse for a D! I thought art was easy?” I hate it when someone touches me headphones, it’s as annoying as her tapping me on the cheek or flicking me in the ear.
“I have a lot of work and I’m not good at art. Seriously, can you please just leave me alone about it until you have any idea about what I’m feeling right now?” My voice is way too biting when I say it, and I’m close to screaming about every little panic attack I’ve had, but I don’t. She sighs and turns the radio up. I’m way too easily aggravated.
This is exactly why I don’t tell my mom anything. I have a feeling that even if I did, she would drain the me out of it. It wouldn’t be, “Andrew is having problems!” it would become, “Oh MY god, MY son has a problem. What could I have done!? Is it MY fault!? Why does this have to happen to ME?” As always, she would sit there and absorb all the drama she could. Not to sound sexist, but the majority of girls are like that. They say they hate drama but they create and bask in it as much as possible.
We stop at a red light. The clock says 7:30 which means it’s 7:35 which means I just might possibly make it on time. Fuck! This happens like every day, and every day I get the same headache. My heart beats faster and I can’t stop worrying about whether or not I’ll be late. It’s just, it would be better if I knew I wasn’t going to make it on time, because then I could just accept it, but I don’t know, so I can’t. I don’t even care about another tardy, my heart just won’t slow down and head won’t stop racing and I know the diet pills aren’t helping.
My mom pulls up in front of the school. I get out of the car and start to do a little awkward fast walk towards the building when, ding ding ding, the late bell rings.
I love the mornings, and I hate the mornings. It’s so hard to make myself get up, to face the day; it’s like motivating myself to beat the shit out of myself. But on the flip side it’s the only time I can do anything, it’s when I have free time before my brain wakes up and tells me just how much I suck. Every fucking day I lay there for 10 to 15 minutes telling myself why I have to get up. I think about the consequences of not going to school the same way I think about the consequences of not doing my homework. Then, the fourth alarm of the day rings. I’m just that used to this.
It feels like my life’s just one big bad habit as I lay on my bed waiting for the alarm. It feels like every breath is another bitten fingernail, every footstep is just another picked booger.
My life is just convenient enough for me to keep living.
Ring. Ring. Ring. God damnit.
I get up and think about food, it doesn’t sound great. I’m already dressed, and my hair is usually a last minute thing to do in the car vanity mirror, so I’m pretty much ready.
I open up my sock drawer and pull out a pill bottle, the kind that isn’t bad enough to be prescription but still dangerous enough to merit a warning label and childproof cap. “Lipomax” the bottle reads, “Do not exceed three pills in a 24 hour period.” So I take three.
They’re diet pills if you didn’t figure that much out, and like most people I started them because I’m insecure about my weight. I stay on them because I still am, and because of the side effects. “Jitters, racing heart, dizziness, and severe headache may occur” Or at least that’s how the bottle pitches it, and it’s usually enough to get me through the worst of the day. It’s a distraction; it’s the energy to actually have the confidence to actually attempt to handle things. At least that’s how I look at it.
One thing about being a compulsive worrier is, I plan ahead to much. Like now? I’ve got 45 minutes before my mom needs to leave for work: aka my ride. I have to get up this early to make sure she gets up to make sure I’m not late. I’m rarely not late anyway.
I turn on the TV. If I had to come up with something I’m grateful for it would be Tivo. This way I get to watch any shows I like without battling for the TV control or sitting in the living room for hours, I just hit record and watch it whenever everyone else is gone or asleep. Between my dad and little sister, I don’t get a chance during normal viewing hours anyway.
Browsing through I hit the OK button on a concert I recorded, some big weekend fest in Britain or Germany, but filled with American bands because Europe is just so much more artistic for them to play or some shit. I fast forward through commercials.
On stage, it’s one of the hottest girls I’ve ever seen, and 3 other dudes on instruments in the much darker background. She’s got this crazy red hair and a body that screams, “I spend an unrealistic amount of time at the gym,” but she still sings the angsty teenage lyrics that every screaming girl in the audience, and me, wants to hear. That’s what being an emotional guy means these days, the sensitivity of a preteen girl. All those lyrics about loving someone and being dumped, the ones you know aren’t written from any sort of experience. Like really? I’d sell my kidney just too high five you, the only way you were dumped is if you cheated like twice a week on him/her.
I fast forward through some commercials. That stupid lush that only has a career because of autotune. I fast forward. Some shirtless black dude with abs I’d kill for. I fast forward. A slow acoustic song… sung by a guy in a sleeveless leather jacket with a pink Mohawk. I fast forward. It’s over. It asks me if I want to delete it and I hit yes.
I don’t know why I record these things in the first place.
I check my iPod and see I’ve got 20 minutes before I need to leave. As I get up to nag my mom I can feel the diet pills taking effect. I’ve got an unnatural spring in my step, like I’ve had 10 cups of coffee, or, in this case, the 3 pill of equivalent of.
“Hurry up!” I yell and pound on the door, knowing that my dad is sleeping. If I can’t sleep why should he?
When did I become this I’m bitter?
“We’re not going to be late!” My mom’s voice says through the door in a sharp hissing whisper.
But of course, we are. Like we always are. I should have become at least a little bit desensitized to it by now, but I’m not. I’ve got my music loud and my foot is tap tap tapping against my backpack the entire 30 minute ride.
When we drive, to school, to the store, to anywhere, it’s always the same. I listen to my music, and my mom sits next to me and talks. I don’t know if she’s just venting or just can’t stand the silence, but it’s pretty obvious I’m not listening. When she wants to say something important she taps me on the knee and I pull out a headphone just long enough to hear her spit out a few words of relevance.
“You have a D in art you know.” She says after touching me on the knee.
“And you care about my art grade? It doesn’t count towards a core class college GPA or anything.” I put my headphone back in. I’m always irritated when I wake up an hour early to make sure we’re on time and she can’t get her ass out of bed in time.
She pulls the headphone out of my ear and says, “So? That’s no excuse for a D! I thought art was easy?” I hate it when someone touches me headphones, it’s as annoying as her tapping me on the cheek or flicking me in the ear.
“I have a lot of work and I’m not good at art. Seriously, can you please just leave me alone about it until you have any idea about what I’m feeling right now?” My voice is way too biting when I say it, and I’m close to screaming about every little panic attack I’ve had, but I don’t. She sighs and turns the radio up. I’m way too easily aggravated.
This is exactly why I don’t tell my mom anything. I have a feeling that even if I did, she would drain the me out of it. It wouldn’t be, “Andrew is having problems!” it would become, “Oh MY god, MY son has a problem. What could I have done!? Is it MY fault!? Why does this have to happen to ME?” As always, she would sit there and absorb all the drama she could. Not to sound sexist, but the majority of girls are like that. They say they hate drama but they create and bask in it as much as possible.
We stop at a red light. The clock says 7:30 which means it’s 7:35 which means I just might possibly make it on time. Fuck! This happens like every day, and every day I get the same headache. My heart beats faster and I can’t stop worrying about whether or not I’ll be late. It’s just, it would be better if I knew I wasn’t going to make it on time, because then I could just accept it, but I don’t know, so I can’t. I don’t even care about another tardy, my heart just won’t slow down and head won’t stop racing and I know the diet pills aren’t helping.
My mom pulls up in front of the school. I get out of the car and start to do a little awkward fast walk towards the building when, ding ding ding, the late bell rings.