of bitter fragile things

The scale said 112.8 lbs this morning.

A new low.

I saw my mother last night.

"You're so skinny!" She said for exactly the second time in my twenty-six years.

My spirits soared. Victorious!

Then they crashed. Furious at myself for even caring. For playing her game. For falling right into her trap. For following her damned footsteps.

I talked a little bit with my parents about what happened. It started innocently enough. What medication am I on? Is it helping? How long will I need to take it?

Then they started asking harder questions.

What happened?

How long have you felt this way?

I told them I've been depressed since I was 10 years old and they were shocked.

They wanted to know if something triggered it.

My Mom kept hugging me.

I wanted to scream. In the middle of the restaurant. In the middle of my sister's house in front of all her roommates.

Do you not remember my entire childhood? You don't remember how you treated me?

And I know I'm not, but I feel so crazy. Like I've made up this horrible world in my head. One that I lived through. One that doesn't exist.

And I don't know what to say.

Clueless. They are so clueless. Conveniently remembering bits and pieces. And I am such a coward. Unable to speak the truth.

They're coming over soon. With more questions that I can't answer.

............

The other night, I was laying on the couch with the Mr. We were listening to a record. I suddenly asked him what he would have done if he'd come home and found me dead.

See, I've forgotten. I can think about killing myself, about dying, in such an emotionless, removed way. It doesn't effect me at all. But I forgot that I'm alone in that.

"Why?" He asked, alarm on his face.

"I don't know." I said, sort of honestly. I didn't really know.

He was silent for a long time.

"I would have held you and cried." He finally whispered, and his voice cracked. "I would have...have tried to make you kiss me back..."

His voice completely broke. "Do we have to talk about this?" He demanded, hoarsely, horrified.

"No!" I quickly assured him, holding him tightly. And his sorrow just overflowed. His pain at even the thought of losing me. It was too much for him to hold back. And I felt horrible for doing that to him. For making him even think about it.

"That first week you were in the hospital." He finally managed to say. "I had that exact nightmare every night."

And that's when I realized. I think I needed to see how much it hurt him to think about it. Like some sort of fucked up, numb robot, I needed to see how a normal human being would react.

So we held each other in the dark, and we both cried. Him because he loved me so much. Me because I still didn't feel anything when I thought about dying.

I want to want to live for myself. But for now, I will keep living for him.