Sometimes I Pull a Muscle In My Brain OR A Depression Story.
Your brain broke. Fuck. Okay. Did it break before or after that nap? You hate when you have sex dreams about the annoying guy from “New Girl”. Doesn’t matter. Go out and see friends. Do not cry in front of friends. You should stay home. No one wants to see you cry. They will think you are indulgent. Okay. Staying home. But if you stay home you have no distraction. You will think about the pros and pros of killing yourself for the better part of the evening. Then you will think about your family. They will probably feel real bad if you kill yourself. Agreed. You can wait to kill yourself until after your parents die. You can wait that long. Okay. You don’t want your parents to die. You’re disgusting. Stop acting crazy. Go out. Go to the party. You get yourself together and look surprisingly decent considering the gangrene eating apart your brain and your heart. Your friends will make you feel better. They love you. Nope. You’re unlovable. Cry in the car. A lot. Fuck. You look like shit again. Consider taking Adderall. Apply more make-up. Nothing says you’re happy like goopy red lips. Walk in to party. Five minutes of hellos offers a solid diversion. Good. You’re doing fine. No one knows you’re half human. The host is fastened to the couch. Someone mutters something about a back muscle being pulled. You lean down and give host an ill coordinated hug. Someone compliments you on the stupid hat you’re only wearing cause of a bad haircut. That’s what you say. But you know it’s because your hair is filthy and perhaps it smells. You consider leaving. That would be weird. You just got there. Okay. Someone noticed you are acting distant. You’re not invisible. That feels good. Is something wrong? Your eyes well up a little. Maybe you should tell them how many times you thought about doing bad things to yourself today? You look in their eyes and notice they are fluttering with worry. They don’t want to know. Uh oh. You tell them you’re fine. Just having a bad day. Make a joke. Make a suicide joke! Phew! They laugh. You’re invisible again. Good job.
Your backache friend is doing well. People are delivering drinks and empathy is dripping off faces like sweat after one of those annoying hot yoga classes. Yoga. They all do yoga. You don’t. Every time they ask you why you don’t you say something angry and judgmental. You tell them yoga gives you panic attacks. You say you like to exercise but not with all that shitty spiritual stuff. You do not tell them you don’t exercise at all ever. They probably all hate you now that you think of it. Why won’t you go to their fucking yoga class? Someone asks backache friend if the muscle pulling happened during yoga. You interject. No. It happened cause you’re old. Hahahahah! No one laughs. Consider taking Xanax. Backache friend looks at you sad rather than mad. All that yoga makes backache friend sweet and calm. You should leave. Go home and hang yourself with a pair of Lululemons. But you know the truth. You don’t own Lululemons. You are sure the Ross knockoffs you do have would rip apart from the weight of your untoned body. You shouldn’t have come. The friend with the worried eyes from earlier notices you again and asks if you want a cracker with cheese. You don’t. But your concerned friend already made you the perfect square with the perfect swash of horseradish flavored pub cheese. You take it anyway because maybe there is magic in that cracker. There isn’t. You put the whole thing in your face and immediately regret it cause the four cement-like cracker corners tear up the lining of your mouth. You hope you don’t get a canker sore. You say thank you. But not until there is a chunk of cheese sneaking out the corner of your lips. Go to the bathroom and reapply your lipstick. That will help. Red lipstick makes you feel like a normal girl. You look in the mirror and notice how old you suddenly look. You really should kill yourself. Go back to the living room. People are seriously catering to backache friend. You get an abrupt almost frantic urge to loudly explain to everyone, even those new people you just met that everyone seems to know but you, that you also have a pulled muscle. But it’s in your brain and impossible to reach. One of the new people just finished a massage course and wants to practice so backache friend obliges. Moans of relief bellow across the white plaster walls.
You wish you could tell everyone, even the new people who you really want approval from, that you need a fucking massage too but on your brain. That you don’t know even know what the hell that means anyway just that you were noticing how much easier it was for people to help your backache friend. That you wish you could rip out your brain and stuff it on a couch with just the right amount of pillow support and delivered cocktails. That you wish you could describe how your brain was momentarily broken and maybe someone has some kind of electric heating pad or tiger balm that will tell it that the pain is only temporary. That no matter how many spasms it goes through they will never judge it. That they know the knot is there and they love it anyway.
You are ridiculous. This is stupid. You are stupid. You realize you’re comparing your brain depression to an actual pulled back muscle. You want it to be simple. You know it’s not. Go home. Just go home. You find your concerned friend. You ask for a hug. You feel like a goddamn jackass. But the hug feels good. Your concerned friend says I love you. You say I love you too.
You cry on the way home in the car. You don’t wash your face. You don’t brush your teeth. You cry some more as you barely make it onto the couch. Consider taking Ambien. You mush your cheek into that rough pillow you tell yourself daily you have to throw out. Eyes close. Tears dry. You need to pee but you’re too lazy to get up. You can wait until morning. It can all wait until morning. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe tomorrow you will write about your ridiculous pulled muscle in the brain depression backache friend analogy.