I have a new friend. Her name is Giselle. Giselle is almost perfect, except for two things. One is she thinks most people around here are ignorant and backward (she’s not altogether wrong by a long shot, but that’s another story). Second, she has a horrible temper, the kind you never know when you’re going to set off. The kind of temper that you know if you weren’t such a miserable failing fat fuck, you would probably not see.
I don’t mean this sexually, of course, but almost from the happenstance day we met, I pulled out my heart from my chest and gave it to her. Have you ever had such a fast emotional bonding to someone. No, I’m not meaning John Hinckley level to Jodi Foster either, just fixated. I would be happy for her if she met her soul mate and made friends more on her level than my miserable excuse for a human being could offer her.
But sweet heavens, her temper, and my pathetic attempts to make her happy and hide the effects her words have on me. Just one text from her with four dots ending the sentence and I knew she was still angry at me from the previous day’s indescretion. Four dots that mean I’m a lazy fat fuck without her ever having to vocalize such words. I’m on my way to the therapist’s and I’m steeling myself for the inquisition. My therapist can tell something is rotten in the state of Lisa, though. I averted my eyes, curled into myself yet she can still see that I’m shaking. Shaking! What a distasteful state to be caught in, one I try never ever to show. And slowly, my therapist makes me spring a leak, something I’ve never done in front of her before. My tears are streaming like a tearful sow snorting into a tissue. My physical stamina was the issue Giselle had said in vague insults a normal person could handle. That I could “walk around a little, but hey don’t take my word for it, I’m just an LPN.” I had gone to bed earlier than her and missed an important question she asked at two am. Hence my stamina at issue. The words that sent me into a sniveling sobbing ball of rotundity was a physical task she needed help with, “I’m sure you will pitch in a little….” Dots can say what words won’t. Miserable, Lazy Fat Fuck. My interpretation.
I don’t cry in front of people. My mom lying dead in CCU, I wiped my tears away in order to not upset my friend nearby. “She doesn’t know how upset you get does she,” asks my therapist. “It’s because you try to appear ‘normal’ around her, right? She doesn’t know how your mental illness effects you, that you shut down?” I want her to feel that I am normal, that I am her equal, so she will never one day say again, “No offense, but I don’t see how I can continue talking to you as an equal.” I want so bad to be worthy to breathe the same air as she, but my emotional stamina is even worse than my physical.