Ugh, the tape won’t stop sticking to my fingers.
Shuffling the options I have left in my hand, I pause to admire what I have so far. The trim around my window is pretty well covered in magazine clips of musical instruments, flowers, and, of course, Taylor Swift. Looks perfect. I hate the view out my window. Hence, the overcompensation. The backyard shown through the glass is covered in holes that will steal your ankles, if you have any left, and always floods when the rain dances in her descent. There weren’t a lot of options on where to put my bed in the in the hospital. It had to be close enough to connect to the wires and tubes that snaked their way under my skin. I could see a little outside. The extending side of the gray building was just fascinating. The last few weeks in there, when I could last a good thirty minutes in the wheelchair, I was allowed to go outside to the courtyard once a week or so-- nope, that’s being generous. I was lucky enough to see four walls, but this time I could see clouds. And freeze my ass off. I had a really nice view from my room if you were standing, though. Apparently. The rain always makes sure she is heard, but for four months, I couldn’t sit by the window and watch her paint music and listen to my emotions. I couldn’t have guessed I would miss that. When I first got home, I couldn’t sleep in my room because of the stairs. You can be sure, that when my feet touched the top stair for the first time, two months later, I told my parents to get ready. “Paint. Paint over it all,” I said. I ended up choosing “sea breeze.” From there, I purged every piece of the past that I didn’t need anymore. Much to my dad’s heartbreak, I was only keeping what is important (ie. books). I hung up fairy lights. This space was not going to be anything like room 752. I remember how people loved to hang things on the wall across from me. Which was the only thing I had to stare at all day. Get well cards and junk that just cluttered. Cluttered my wall. Cluttered my mind. A white board sat in the center with the date, the name of the doctor, and the notes. It changed everyday, only getting messier and messier. Now, my room is clean. My mind is clean. Oh god, I remember. It was raining and I couldn’t see out the window. It was raining and I couldn’t stand up. It was raining and I wasn’t sure I ever would again. “Take them down!” My voice fought against my throat, rubbing raw. “I don’t want it! I don’t deserve it!” So, my mom did, she took down the clutter on the puke green walls (a cliche that is unfortunately common). She wasn’t going fast enough, and the damn tape decided that right then was the best time to start doing its job and actually stick to the wall. I spent my last Christmas getting iTunes gift cards and coloring books. I would have been nicer if it wasn’t the only thing I could really do (from a hospital bed). I spent four holidays with no real window. This year is going to be full of windows. The rain will have cleaned them for my arrival, of course, she is very kind, you know. This may not sound like a jolly Christmas tale, but trust me, it is. This Christmas, I am going to walk up the brick path to my grandmother’s house and watch my baby cousins (I don’t care how old they are, I will always call them that) open up presents of dolls and puzzles and cars and well, it’s a surprise. This is a story with a happy ending. I got my Christmas miracle. I wish one for you, too.
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Superstitions give me anxiety.
I don’t think I have that many, but I’ve grow up with family that takes them to another level. Of course, logically, I know they are absolute baloney. Still, my heart jumps if I don’t knock on wood anytime I jinx myself. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. You know, “Today has been so awesome! The rest of today is going to be great-” *KNOCKS ON WOOD or my head because that counts for some reason* or otherwise the opposite might happen. I hate uncertainty and I hate waiting for the other shoe to drop. Superstitions that if I think a positive thing, it won’t happen (fated BS) drives me crazy. So, believe what you will about black cats and opening umbrellas inside- all I know is that superstitions give me anxiety. Note: I am not including Murphy’s Law. That sh*t is scary [true]. |
Who Am I?Hi there! I'm Whit, my pronouns are they/them, and I write a lot.
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Painting by Whit Acrylics on masonite April 20th, 2019 Words are a Quaker saying. George Fox? |