life is but a dream

"I don't know how I'm going to get better." I whispered into my pillow. I asked ChatGPT for some coping methods, and one of them was doing that. I looked at myself in the mirror everyday, too, whispering a motto or mantra. Whatever I was feeling that time around. I wrote in a journal. Usually in short, fragmented sentences. That felt right. Real sentences sometimes did, but when I used them, they felt like a mask over what was real. An 'I'm fine' or a 'just tired', to cover up the hurt that people don't like to see. See. See.

There would be some days where I would feel okay. Where I would be able to function. Where I would walk with my dog who didn't get enough walks. Where I would get out of bed. Where I would maybe call some of my friends. Where AI would congratulate me on feeling better, offering fake comforting words. Where my book list would grow. Where I would bask in the sun if it was summer time. Where I would eat some yogurt or maybe even eat out with my dad and sister. Where I felt okay. Okay. Okay.

But there are also bad days to the good days. Where I don't feel okay. Where I don't know how I'm going to get better. Where I would call my dog who didn't get enough walks and he would sit on my bed, breaths slowing. He's an emotional support dog, given to me by my dad when I rarely had any good days. That was a couple years ago. I'm getting better now. I think. Maybe sometimes I would try to read a few pages of a book I'd gotten on a good day. Maybe sometimes I would listen to music on my phone. It would be sad music with melancholy tunes. It was the only music that felt real. But I still was happy for all the love songs who had really good days with their loves. But sometimes I would just feel sick. Sick. Sick.

I looked at the pillow, a slightly damp mark from where my mouth had been. I wiped my mouth and grimaced. Disgusting, I thought. There was a copper taste in my mouth, like one of pennies. It made my stomach retch. I covered my mouth and then raced to the bathroom. I threw myself onto the floor as last night's dinner flowed out of my system. Yesterday, a Wednesday, was a good day. I'd gotten dinner with dad and sister, named Audrey. Audrey was really nice. She made me feel like I was happy again. Again. Again.

After I cleaned myself and the potty up, I looked at myself in the mirror and a big, fat tear rolled down my face. I felt like I was ten again. It was late at night, and I'd had a big dinner. I fell asleep in a short amount of time, in sharp contrast to my usual hour-long period before I could fall asleep. I yawned and about three hours later, at 1 am or something, I woke up. My stomach retched. I covered my mouth and chewed on the side of my mouth, trying to mimic gum or something. And then I got really tired. I stopped chewing and then I vomited all over my bed sheets. I was disgusted by the sight of my own self, and then I ran to the bathroom, desperate to get the rest out. Nothing did. I was done. Then, I cried for a second, on the cold bathroom floor. I didn't want to get my mom up. It would be too embarrassing. So I went back into my bedroom and ripped off my sheets, careful to not touch the wet spots. I'd learned by then how to do the laundry. So I placed my sheets into the washing machine and waited by it for two long hours, reading a graphic novel. I didn't ask for help. Help. Help.

I felt my brain start to fog up. I was almost immediately tired. I had been feeling like a little kid. I called the toilet a potty. Maybe I really wanted to be a kid at that moment. No, not maybe. For REAL. I smiled, pretending it was all gap-toothed. I laughed a little. I felt drunken happy. But feeling like a kid when you're not a kid in a bad moment makes you feel drunken happy. Or not. Maybe it's just me. I let a little drool fall out of my mouth as I brushed my teeth. I could feel sad, but I didn't want to pay for cavities or have a puke-y taste in my mouth the rest of the day. I called Audrey. My Audrey. I smiled as I told her that I felt happy. She said she was happy to know that I was happy. Happy. Happy.

Audrey and I talked for an hour. A whole HOUR! I felt happy! I looked at the pretty, beautiful scene outside my window. It was snowing. I smiled big, feeling a little hazy but still alive. After all of these good days, I almost can forget why I was sad in the first place. Why was I even sad in the first place? I ask dad and Audrey. They look at me with a sad look in their eyes that I don't like. It's like they're keeping a secret from me. And then it all comes rushing back. Back. Back.

I had a friend. Friend, right? It's all a little confusing. And I think that that friend was a really good friend. And I remember lots of lights and sirens. It was really loud. I was scared. I remember going into a new car after I was in a car with my friend. Now I remember- her name was Faye. I always loved that name. And now I remember- I was sick. Well, not sick, but somebody was being sad/bad and drove over a cliff when Faye and I were driving around. I don't know where we were going. Faye was getting loud and the world was getting loud and then it all STOPPED. I can remember opening my door, and getting out of my car. Was it my car? I can't remember. I remember going to the driver. I remember trying to feel his heart. It was a he. I remember something falling. F. A. L. L. I. N. G. Onto me. I can't remember anything really after that. I woke up somewhere in a big white room. Hospital. It was a hospital. There was a nurse saying something about forgetting a lot. I have remembered a lot, though. I didn't need to relearn how to walk or speak. I was lucky. But he wasn't. I tried to help. But they looked at me with sad eyes and said that he went to a better place. In other words, I thought, he died. Died. Died.

Now I remember. Faye is still my friend. She's a very good friend. I call her and sometimes we eat together. She wasn't hurt that day. She says only him and I were hurt. That's what makes me sad, I think. So I cry into pillows and I have a dog that doesn't get enough walks. But I am getting better. I say I don't know how to get better. Maybe I don't. But I will try. Right? I've been trying very hard. Maybe I won't get better. Better. BETTER.

I push away the loudness and put on a coat and blanket and watch the snow fall. It falls lightly, all powdery. Like a doughnut. I saw on the weather news last night after dinner with dad and Audrey that they use doughnuts to represent sleet, freezing rain, and snow. We were getting all of it, but now it was the powdered sugar doughnut: snow! I put on my hat and my scarf and my gloves and walked out of my house, braving the cold. It was only about twenty degrees, and I shivered as I exited the warmth of my home. I walked into my backyard, sticking my tongue out to feel the snowflakes dissolve on my tongue. I laughed a little and then fell down, making a snow angel. I moved my arms and legs, feeling like a little kid. I called Faye. She came! She sang songs with me. They were little kid songs, called nursery rhymes. She hugs me really tight and picks me up a little. I laughed for REAL this time. Not pretend this time. And I really like not pretending. Faye lets go after a little bit and we sit together, watching the snow fall. Fall. Fall.

But I'm not falling with it.

I can try.