February 22nd, 2016

The Red Tree

I got your trigger right here.

This is going to be short. I just want to get something down, and then I can go back to trying to wake up. It's a sunny day here, a deceptively sunny day. You might almost believe the sun out there is at least a tiny bit warm. Warmish, at least. But no. It's only 46˚F. This mood I'm in, I need 85˚F.

I might have slept five hours.

And there's pain behind my eyes.

For weeks now my saliva hasn't tasted right? What the fuck is that about? Life beyond fifty has become a cascade of physiological blowouts and slow-mo car crashes. I'm watching my disintegration, one ounce of dignity and comfort at a time.

Once upon a time, just before I turned forty, I swore I'd commit suicide on my fiftieth birthday. And I very nearly did. And now, I see I have missed that opportunity. It's not that I had a change of heart. It's just that I lack the resolve.

Yesterday was my kid sister's fiftieth birthday.

Today, this room is not where I need to be.

Later,
Aunt Beast

Note: Before anyone freaks out about anything I've written here, stop and take a breath. And remember, it's my job to tell the truth. The moment I stop, I'm worthless.