Coping Mechanisms

I remember staring out the window, counting the raindrops. Losing track in the 900s, unclear if they had all morphed into one or if I was blinded by the ones my tear ducts had created. 

I remember shaking the Parliament Lights and slapping the top of the box against my wrist like old habit. My knees buckling, my vision going black as the paper flamed. I gently pinched another out of the box, the lighter rough against my thumb. Again. Again. Again. 

I remember staring so intently at the ant killer spray, envisioning lifting it up and pressing down on the button, the poison splattering into my mouth. It was hard to fathom it didn’t actually happen. 

I remember running, aiming for three miles, going for six, my legs pulsing like they were bleeding, my hips feeling like they could be removed from the hinges like a Barbie. 

I remember opening my planner to write a to-do list, and instead filling the pages with all of the reasons I would press the red button when you called. 

I remember not being able to type in the right combination code, because I could feel you watching me. I remember pulling at the lock with desperation, as if that were the problem. 

I remember seeing an ant run across the pillowcase, your shriek as I crushed it between my fingertips. My heart, as it shattered, as your eyes absorbed the imperfection.  

I remember sliding my body an inch at a time lower and lower into the bathtub, convinced I could breathe under the water. 

I remember making four variations of funfetti: cake, cupcakes, cookies, pancakes, every meal was a rainbow. 

I remember meticulously applying makeup, a YouTube tutorial playing next to the mirror. Once I was done, I filled the basin with water, dunked my head in, and smeared the mascara across my face. 

I remember making a list of tiny victories: cancelling home renter’s insurance from a place I lived four years ago, hanging up a shirt I had been sleeping next to, returning an ugly skirt and keeping a marginally better looking one. I stopped putting the ant killer spray directly next to my water bottle. 

I remember wearing my too-big quartz pinky ring for the first time and when it flew off in the parking lot and you handed it back to me, I ran my finger over the chip, knowing I’d think of you every time I slid it over my knuckle. 

I remember my therapist asking me if you were the reason I came to therapy. I answered with an emphatic, too-early, “no”. I think she just wanted to know what my face looked like when I was lying. 

I remember listening to the lyric if the world was ending / you’d come over, right? On repeat, thinking of someone different every time. 

I remember putting my phone on do not disturb. Leaving it in a different room, staircases away. I remember trying to break it in half when it still didn’t feel like enough. 

I remember the sound of the shot glass hitting the counter in front of me. The thought, “I’m not drinking enough,” permeating my brain. 

I remember subsisting on blow pops and milkshakes, cutting my hair short, wearing a sundress and a new lip color everyday. I made lists of the girl I wanted to be, and every morning stepped into character. 

I remember the sound of every tire pulling into my driveway. Then, my heartbeat as the car drove away. 

I remember feeling my laces in my hands as I tied my shoes. This time, 10 miles. 

I remember returning the pinky ring, getting a new one. 

I remember the sugar swirling together as I put it down the drain. 

I remember an exterminator coming, telling me I had to treat the problem, not the symptom. 

I remember spraying the perimeter of my walls, breaking down the colonies. 

I remember smelling the clear air without pesticide for the first time in years. 

I forgot what it’s like to kill.