Act I

I’m a mess.

There’s no denying it, not that anybody would try to.

I’m simply falling apart; the only things that are even attempting the laborious task of holding me together are countdowns to summer and Starbucks refreshers and ‘i love u.’

I’m held together by the scotch tape stuck to vines that are half-heartedly taped on my wall because if they fall it’ll take months to muster the strength to hang them back up.

I’m held together by the day after today. I’ll wake up early and do my homework tomorrow. I’ll remember to ask about the zero in PowerSchool tomorrow. I’ll have time to recover from this dreadful week tomorrow. 

My desk is a mess. The poor wood surface hasn’t seen sunlight in months, and there’s nobody to blame but me for its indefinite drowning. Each day I wait for tomorrow to be the day that I’m motivated. Each day I wait for tomorrow to be the day that I have a good skate. Each day I wait for tomorrow to be the day that I figure it all out and tie the eternally fraying threads of my life together into a pleasant bow.

I’m dependent on myself, but I’m not independent. I’m not in control of myself; I exist outside of my own emotions. I’m dependent on whether my yellow duck Squishmallow will send me spiraling. I’m dependent on whether the half-drunk water bottles cluttering my room will finally push me over the edge. I’m dependent on whether today will be the day that it all becomes too much, whether I finally fail to make it to tomorrow. Until I do, I’ll continue to test my limits for the petty joy it brings to my self-sabotaging tendencies.

My eyelids close. My sudden explosion of inspiration born from the ever-so-slight difference in texture of the dried tears on my Squishmallow pillow has vanished in the blink of an eye. The moment has passed. I better stop typing before I truly fall asleep, phone in hand, notes app open. I better stop before my eyes go so cross-eyed that they stay there, synthesizing each sentence into the next.

How many times can my attention shift to my blurry wall before I realize I’m looking at nothing? How many times can I get distracted by thin air before I put my phone down and put myself out of my misery? I have the option to let it go, to let myself go to sleep, but instead, I’m here. I look away from my screen to stop my double vision only to look back as I realize I’m still awake, holding a phone in my hands. In the melancholy haze of anxious words being spewed from my fatigued mind, I finally realize that I genuinely have the ability to toss my phone aside and let slumber take hold of me.

Act II

An unfortunately small number of hours later, she made a choice.

She began her day with tears and hopelessness and anxiety. She asked for help and went back to bed. 

She struggled through skating. She almost cried again but that’s alright. She almost threw up on the way home, but that’s okay too. She made it through the obstacle course, she went home, and somewhere in between, she healed. 

She made a new playlist, she texted her favorite people, she sat with her rabbit, and she went on Pinterest. She journaled, something she’s wanted to do for so long, but hasn’t permitted herself to because she doesn’t deserve to do what makes her happy when she’s behind in life. She decided to dream of summer and admired the beauty of the earth she could see through her screen. She opened her window, and let the light in.

Every color became brighter. Every problem became smaller. Every assignment became easier. Every dream became closer. Every thought became clearer. The light was cleansing.

Procrastination without guilt was a new feeling, and it certainly plans to harm her later. For now, she’ll go to bed early and try to survive. She’ll keep counting down the days until summer and she’ll keep getting Starbucks before school and she’ll keep telling people she loves them because she’s tired of keeping it inside. She’ll reward herself when she finally hangs up her fallen vines. She’ll try to get a little more done today and even more done tomorrow. She’ll depend on herself and she’ll depend on others. She has no choice but to let inspiration strike her in the middle of the night, and she’ll keep bouncing back the next day. It won’t get easier, but it won’t get harder. She’ll survive.