My instinctual response is the most visceral; it is to say, “I thank you, kindly, not to offer me medication every time I share my emotions.” I let these bitter words wash away from my mind and replace them part by parcel. My second reaction is conversationally confrontational. “I have a whole bottle of this, two years past the expiration date, in my own medicine cabinet. Why waste more money on the false intention?” I disregard these words for the starkly self-pitying, “If I wanted to be happy, I’d make better life choices.”
I won’t say any of that, though, and really why should I? I don’t like to stir the shit, I don’t mean it anyway, and the silence is so much more aggressive than the words. It is more poignant this way, or at least it is easier. I hate the confrontation of the whole situation, almost as much as I hate the very idea of its resolution. I sit on the precipice of indecision, liking the tension, dramatic or otherwise, craving that wallow into that existential angst of this moment. I am twenty-seven; I have as much self-knowledge as I did at seventeen and even less ability to understand my mother.
Just for today, let the indecision be enough. I wash my hands of these thoughts, because the dwelling, or more acutely, the painful-pleasure of the dwelling is my sickness. For half a moment I was sure I wouldn’t start another week, another month, another year this way, and then… I am back in the saddle, old hand and old hat, experience teaching me nothing but the pleasure in this awful repetition.