Frailty
if it makes you less sad,
“See, evangeline, this is white.”
He ran my fingers over cotton balls- they felt fillowy, light. I struggled to remember the hue. Black.
“Evangeline, this is red.”
Now my hand was placed on some form of heat, and I yelped. I think I can almost remember red. Red like blood.
“and this is blue,”
Now my hands were slid over ice, melting; translucent buds sliding over my palm. This sitting here was making me ache. I felt like a young child, waiting for a puppy to come out of a box- when it was only a package of socks with puppy /drawings/ on them. You know, the false hope for something completely astronomic, and you know it’s not coming; but you somehow cannot stop believing that there was a small chance you might get the puppy, when there’s really no chance at all. I remember a time when I was crouched on the tile flooring of my bathroom, after I couldn’t remember colours anymore; and I kept trying to shove the toothbrush farther down my throat so I could throw up the meal I’d just eaten. The other girls at school had said I needed a little of the ‘baby fat’ gone; and when I’d asked my mother she’d just cursed under her breath at the girls, and told me I didn’t need to loose a pound. Immediately I decided my mother was lying to my closed eyes, and groped desperately for a quick fix. Crouching over the toilet in my nightgown had been the first thought, but in my desperation, the tooth brush just couldn’t be held there long enough for me to let my food come rushing up again. I don’t think I had ever been more frustrated with everything in the entire world, including my God I was unsure was even real anymore. I had begun to sob, and ended up throwing up all over the cold tiling of the bathroom. The whole next week I visited a therapist. Now I am torn from my thoughts, as my guide is leading me from the bleak room. I grope for my cane.
-----------
I’m waking up, and I fear I’ve slept the whole day away again. But honestly, what would it really matter? It’s not as if I have a date with a devilishly handsome man tonight, or anything of the such. Besides- lately I’ve been less than myself. Well, what’s left of me, all the same. I feel this grip in the pits of my stomach, and I feel my heart skip a beat when I focus on hearing nothing but myself. Maybe this is coming to and end. Lying on my back in the cool, worn sheets- I think I’d be staring at the ceiling if my eyes were truly open. I sift through past memories now, seemingly grasping the picture in which I can remember what a ceiling looks like. Though the popcorn texture is the only thing vibrantly imprinted in the beds of my eyes- I think I’ll prefer to let myself believe that I can remember every goddamn shade and indention on that plaster. My eyes haven’t been really open in years, decades even. Honestly, how long does it take you to forget colour? What is to be forgotten next? Shape, texture? What if I forget the way a smile looks? This black is overcoming me, I fear; as it has been since middle school. You could only imagine you were really seeing for so long- and eventually one would get bored of waiting for the puppy underneath the Christmas tree when all you ever got was socks. If I really thought about it, I was starting to like this blackness. I would never have to look in a mirror and be unhappy with my appearance. Oh, and I would never have to worry about the way those sweaters looked on me- or if they were the right colour; because you know I don’t even know my colours anymore. God, I’m really starting to hate you for creating me. What kind of God creates someone who can’t see? What kind of God lets you see in the first place? Taking the underappreciated gift should have been enough- but no, there were times when I could remember colour. Remember faces, even. Maybe even my own face. But the times were long gone, the times of being able to remember. I am almost disappointed I once believed in a Christ. It’s unethical. How can I believe in something that’s supposed to be so perfect- so clean; when he cannot even provide me with coherent eyes that don’t die out within less than a lifespan? I wish I could see the wall, so I could bring my fist down into the plaster. I imagined the feeling of my knuckles busting, and the sound of bone crushing- and maybe even seeing the bruise after the damage was done. I realized I was crying, lurching. I could’ve sworn I just screamed. Sitting up in the bed, I blinked. For a split second- I think I saw my reflection in the bedroom mirror through the glaze of crystalline, salty tears. And through all the tears, and the one curdling scream- I realized God had been listening.
This god that denied me- this God gave to me this beautiful gift.
I felt my heart skip a beat, and my eyes went black.
I guess seeing really had been believing.
I feel myself slow.
He ran my fingers over cotton balls- they felt fillowy, light. I struggled to remember the hue. Black.
“Evangeline, this is red.”
Now my hand was placed on some form of heat, and I yelped. I think I can almost remember red. Red like blood.
“and this is blue,”
Now my hands were slid over ice, melting; translucent buds sliding over my palm. This sitting here was making me ache. I felt like a young child, waiting for a puppy to come out of a box- when it was only a package of socks with puppy /drawings/ on them. You know, the false hope for something completely astronomic, and you know it’s not coming; but you somehow cannot stop believing that there was a small chance you might get the puppy, when there’s really no chance at all. I remember a time when I was crouched on the tile flooring of my bathroom, after I couldn’t remember colours anymore; and I kept trying to shove the toothbrush farther down my throat so I could throw up the meal I’d just eaten. The other girls at school had said I needed a little of the ‘baby fat’ gone; and when I’d asked my mother she’d just cursed under her breath at the girls, and told me I didn’t need to loose a pound. Immediately I decided my mother was lying to my closed eyes, and groped desperately for a quick fix. Crouching over the toilet in my nightgown had been the first thought, but in my desperation, the tooth brush just couldn’t be held there long enough for me to let my food come rushing up again. I don’t think I had ever been more frustrated with everything in the entire world, including my God I was unsure was even real anymore. I had begun to sob, and ended up throwing up all over the cold tiling of the bathroom. The whole next week I visited a therapist. Now I am torn from my thoughts, as my guide is leading me from the bleak room. I grope for my cane.
-----------
I’m waking up, and I fear I’ve slept the whole day away again. But honestly, what would it really matter? It’s not as if I have a date with a devilishly handsome man tonight, or anything of the such. Besides- lately I’ve been less than myself. Well, what’s left of me, all the same. I feel this grip in the pits of my stomach, and I feel my heart skip a beat when I focus on hearing nothing but myself. Maybe this is coming to and end. Lying on my back in the cool, worn sheets- I think I’d be staring at the ceiling if my eyes were truly open. I sift through past memories now, seemingly grasping the picture in which I can remember what a ceiling looks like. Though the popcorn texture is the only thing vibrantly imprinted in the beds of my eyes- I think I’ll prefer to let myself believe that I can remember every goddamn shade and indention on that plaster. My eyes haven’t been really open in years, decades even. Honestly, how long does it take you to forget colour? What is to be forgotten next? Shape, texture? What if I forget the way a smile looks? This black is overcoming me, I fear; as it has been since middle school. You could only imagine you were really seeing for so long- and eventually one would get bored of waiting for the puppy underneath the Christmas tree when all you ever got was socks. If I really thought about it, I was starting to like this blackness. I would never have to look in a mirror and be unhappy with my appearance. Oh, and I would never have to worry about the way those sweaters looked on me- or if they were the right colour; because you know I don’t even know my colours anymore. God, I’m really starting to hate you for creating me. What kind of God creates someone who can’t see? What kind of God lets you see in the first place? Taking the underappreciated gift should have been enough- but no, there were times when I could remember colour. Remember faces, even. Maybe even my own face. But the times were long gone, the times of being able to remember. I am almost disappointed I once believed in a Christ. It’s unethical. How can I believe in something that’s supposed to be so perfect- so clean; when he cannot even provide me with coherent eyes that don’t die out within less than a lifespan? I wish I could see the wall, so I could bring my fist down into the plaster. I imagined the feeling of my knuckles busting, and the sound of bone crushing- and maybe even seeing the bruise after the damage was done. I realized I was crying, lurching. I could’ve sworn I just screamed. Sitting up in the bed, I blinked. For a split second- I think I saw my reflection in the bedroom mirror through the glaze of crystalline, salty tears. And through all the tears, and the one curdling scream- I realized God had been listening.
This god that denied me- this God gave to me this beautiful gift.
I felt my heart skip a beat, and my eyes went black.
I guess seeing really had been believing.
I feel myself slow.