Cyclical Habits of Self Destruction as She Navigates Living and Dying
As Well As
A Dramatization of Mania and Depression
Days pass, but I wouldn’t know it. Suspended within the atmosphere curated by a concerned lover’s musings, I remain wholly unaware of the rakish world as it continues to spin on its cogs outside of my apartment. Every three days, no sooner and no later, he knocks on my door and presents me with a vanilla iced latte. As I stand with him in my kitchen, clad in pajamas wrinkled with three days of bedrest, I am immediately cured. In the moments where we share a pastry that morning, I’m able to ascribe value to my life. Enough value, in fact, to last for three whole days. For the next three days, I make and eat many meals, start and finish my laundry, and listen to romantic Italian ballads that praise my lover as my savior. I also decide to participate for a few nights in the debauchery of the world, swallowing drinks that I don’t particularly care for and inhaling chemicals that perturb distant recesses of my mind. Before I know it, three days have passed and I once again find myself buried beneath my duvet. Head pounding with dehydration, anxiety soaring over my inability to remember the severity of my antics, I prescribe myself the escapism of sleep. And as I sleep for hours on end, my subconsciousness convinces itself that the life I live is devoid of any true substance. By this point, it has been 72 hours since he last heard from me. It is through his mingled concern and insatiable lust for me that the aforementioned atmosphere is fashioned, and I’m able to conjure enough sensibility to ward off any desires to engage with any of the vices of the outer world. And before I know it, he’s once again knocking on my door with an iced vanilla latte in hand. And as I gaze upon my savior, it dawns on me that regardless of how many times I cease to live, he will always return to invigorate me with caffeine and decadent bread, a christly smile adorning his face as he offers me my sacrament.