- Tweek -
It's four a.m., but there's nothing unusual about that for me now.
I can't believe I'm in my mid-twenties already. It doesn't seem real. But then, nothing seems real to me. I'm told things are real, and I know my medication is real. It helps, usually. Mostly. Probably 85% of the time. This is something ... else, sort of. Something I'm not being treated for. I'm alone, in my room, my parents are asleep in their bedroom though they'll be up soon, to open the shop and run it until It's time for my shift. That's the general routine. They help more that I'm on specific medications, and mom takes me to my monthly therapy appointment. Since it's in Denver and I can't drive. Most of the spare cash I get from working goes into simple things I like. Like stuffed animals. Or a new thermos or mug.
I'm staring up at the ceiling, it has a weird drippy-like pattern. Not the smooth kind like a hospital. Or even patterned like some houses. I'm trying to distract myself, but it's not working very well. My thoughts keep whirling inside my head. It's annoying but breathing isn't helping either.
It's like a conversation in my head, with myself. Which isn't uncommon for me, but it's different. It's not the standard stuff..., this feels more ... tangible somehow. It's hard to put into words really. But my therapist would encourage me to try. Words help us understand things. Even if we eventually find better words, the current words are good enough until we learn better ones.
But my thoughts are going like this, "You have no idea what it's like to see yourself pushing away your friends. It's probable they only really tolerate you anyway, and then you go and do that and just isolate yourself and then try to blame them but you know it's YOUR fault. You said and did it, they're powerless to stop you. It's on you to control yourself and be logical. You want to talk to your friends but you don't want to bother them with your emotional bullshit, which you know is bullshit anyway. You're angry at yourself but you can't just let it go like you know you should. But you won't because you're too stupid to let go, because you hold on to what's there, that semblance of control that you never really have but you like to pretend you have anyway. Who could you even message at 4 in the morning? Kenny? He works days, he's probably asleep. Craig? He works nights so if he's not at work, yeah maybe but he doesn't do the whole 'feelings' thing that you always try to drag him into. Pete? He works thirds too, he's probably at work or hanging with his friends. You could try, but then you'd just feel like you're bothering them. Regardless of whether you are or not. Because although you know, you know very well, people have lives outside of you and your friendship, you still naively believe, as children do, that people will just stop their lives for your problems. How fucked do you have to be, to believe that still? Gods, Tweek. You keep just barely talking yourself out of it, but gods you want to. You want to self-harm. You want to feel something else. You want that physical pain because you understand it, it's so much easier to deal with than the mental turmoil. But it's been months since you last did. You broke it after quite a while of not, but you've been good for another long while now. It doesn't really fix your problem, you know that, but still. Fucking still, you want to. You want to stop this bullshit but you don't know how. Years of therapy and you still don't know anything. Sure, you're classified as better than you were, but are you better or just better at hiding the problems?"
An alarm is playing, a favorite song. It jolts me from my thoughts, bringing me to reality. I turn off the alarm and gather my clothes for the day before going to the bathroom across the hall for a quick shower.
Once out, I dress in long black jeans and a gray t-shirt with a dark green long sleeved button-up. I walk back into my room as I fiddle with the buttons on my shirt. I glance at my phone for the time and swear softly as I jog down the stairs, buttons on my shirt be damned. I start another pot of coffee as I also make some breakfast burritos. As the coffee brews, I eat. I pour a mug of coffee and then a thermos contains the rest. I sip the mug between cleaning the coffee maker.
I run back up the stairs for my meds and then back down the stairs for my coffee. I shake out what I need to take and down it with a gulp of coffee. I finish my mug quickly and rinse it out, leaving it to dry as I stride to the door to stuff my boots on and leave for work.
Not too cold yet, I notice as I walk to the coffee shop. I stuff my hands into my pockets as I walk, hunching slightly against the wind. I finally arrive and take my spot at the register as my parents move about the store, cleaning minor things and stocking varies things as they prepare to leave the last hours to me. If it gets busy within the hour, they'll stay to help until it dies down but if not, I'll be on my own. I smile when I see the familiar orange parka walk by the window. He comes to the counter and offers a grin before ordering his usual. I fix it for him and accept the tender, and he sits in his usual spot as I continue to wait on customers and clean. It's not too busy a day, and Kenny remains throughout my shift. Which is always nice, he knows I sometimes still get anxious walking home after dark. Which, by the time I'm finished, it is quite dark. He stands to the left of me as I'm locking up.
In silence, he walks me home, it's nice. He nods his farewell and continues on to his apartment. I watch his brightly colored back for a few extra seconds before stepping into the house and locking the door behind me.