Egghead

He tried to make me feel better, but I didn’t really want to feel better, even though I eventually got up, went out, and did a bit of cleaning. I think it’s important to want to feel better, but I also think it’s important to sometimes let yourself feel bad, you know?

I don’t have ideas anymore. I just have dreams. Like my subconscious need is desperately crawling its way out, but I keep shoving it down without wanting to. So, hopefully, this is like a ladder— but that’s as much help as I can give. It needs to pull itself the rest of the way out.

I heard from [REDACTED] again today. He is on some other shit, as always.

I did not, however, hear much from myself today. There was a part of the day where I was looking at a ceiling and I thought, “That light looks like an egg.” And that was it. My brain repeated it over and over and over and over again. Nothing else. “That looks like an egg,” “that looks like an egg,” “that looks like an egg.” No relief. Constant. It was infuriating and I couldn’t stop it.

Half the time I can’t stop myself. I lack self-control and sometimes, other times, there is too much. It is all self-control and walls. I try to work around them, but no one ever really gets it when I do, so what is the point?

And I feel that this is the question I have been asking myself all along, for so long. What is the point?

I’ve been struggling with unreality for months. I do not feel that I am who I am, or that I belong here, or that I am who I was before. Panic. Utter panic all the time. Racing heart, sweaty skin, upset stomach. Never any relief. That looks like an egg.

There is no threat. Everything is a threat. It’s all eggs.

I am on a rock, hurtling through space, awaiting death. Terror.

I have done nothing, I am nothing, there is nothing to be done and nothing to do.

Eggs.

Over and over and over again.

Every day is the same day, every week, every month. Every hour. There is no change. This happened before the Coronavirus, but it has only become expounded by it. The city was rioting earlier this month. I have been in my house. There is nowhere to go. There is nothing to do. Hopeless. Useless. This is less of a story and more of a series of awful, awful thoughts. A visible reminder of all of the things I hate so much.

I think that often, too. “I hate,” “I hate,” “I hate.” So much “hate”. So much “I”. I hate how much I use the word I. I wonder if I could just let myself, if I could accept it, could I come to terms with it? But instead, I am the girl who thinks about herself too much and hates herself because of it, and I hate it.

It all looks like eggs.

Sometimes I feel the only person that even knows me at all is the cat, so that is probably pretty sad. But he comforts me and never asks more of me than I can give-- just complete love and affection all the time. Change the food, change the poop, change nothing else. That is easy. I know the expectations. Maybe the reason we get along so well is because those expectations were clear from the start. I signed up for them.

I’ve found myself wondering if he wants something more from life. Is that stupid? He’s a cat. I don’t think that’s stupid. Who says he cannot have hopes, and dreams, and goals? And if he does, how can I begin to understand those and help him accomplish them?

Just because someone is different from me does not mean that their wants and needs are silly. Even if he is a cat.

I feel this way about a lot of people, but their hopes, wants, needs, and expectations are not as clear to me as his so I cannot deliver support in the same sure and stronghearted way. I am probably as much a cat to them as my cat, and they are all eggs to me.

I’ve tried to see the subtle differences, the big differences, I try to know that surely it is not all the same, surely some of it must carry importance or weight or providence. It doesn’t feel true. Nothing feels true. Except that I hate and hate but I feel nothing, I am nothing, there is nothing, it is all the same and all of it is wrong. How did I get here? I feel as if I entered some alternate timeline at some point and I’m the only one that noticed. I am the only one who knows.

Because they all belong here. And none of it is mine.

I miss magic.

I haven’t found a semblance of magic anywhere in life. I’ve searched for a very long time, too. So, does that mean it does not exist? Or maybe it does not exist in the way that I want it to. The thought makes my heart heavy, although I probably should have come to terms with it a long time ago. After all, I am 24 now. I am a woman, no longer a child to be bothered by fancy and dreams, but I somehow cannot leave them behind or let go of them.

Somehow, I am stuck right where I have always been.

I think that this is where I should end it now. I’ve rambled too long, and I’ve probably upset you, too.


About the Author

Sara Watkins (she/her) is an editor, author, UCTD-haver, and EIC of Spoonie Press, a literary magazine for chronically ill, disabled, and neurodivergent creators. She is also a big fan of deviating from the norm for her own comfortability and entertainment. Her writing explores themes of disability and autonomy using wry surrealism and general weirdness to champion the idea that, despite our differences, we are not alone. Recent publications include work in Wordgathering: A Journal of Disability, MASKS Literary Magazine, Vast Chasm, Bitchin’ Kitsch, and Unlikely Stories. Sara can be reached via www.sarawatkins.net or @saranadebooks on Twitter and Instagram.