Your Curiosity Killed The Cat 

You laughed like it was a joke. And I laugh with you because I’ve never given a hint that “bisexual” could be a term to describe me. But while you laugh at the possibility I could also be fond of women, I am left questioning my reality. 

I’ve never had a girlfriend, so I’m just confused

I’m in a relationship with a man, so I must be straight

I begin to wonder if my feelings are even valid… because you decided that being bisexual was just simple confusion, and not who I am. But I could tell you how I studied the flawless features of my best friend. I’d stare at her like she was the best thing on this planet and I loved spending time with her. Or I could remind you of the nervousness I felt as I gazed over my shoulder at my friend. We stood across the room from each other, changing into bathing suits, and I couldn’t help but wish she was as curious as I. As I turned back around, I told myself I didn’t have feelings for girls. It was all in my head and I denied how I felt until I was 22. I was afraid people wouldn’t believe me because I just didn’t fit the stereotype. 

I guess what I’m trying to say is…

I’m bisexual. Get over it. 

A Letter To My Falling Out

You came up to me in gym class, your arms folded and your brown hair dangling just above your shoulders. You seemed so confident and relaxed, surrounded by people you knew, but were strangers to me. There was a click and it felt like we had known each other our whole lives. There were no awkward conversations, everything just kind of flowed.

Summer came and we were attached at the hips. We bonded over writing and The Simms. Our hair and style brought us to the conclusion that we were twins, and we both wanted to be a doctor after graduating college. Wind blew our hair in crazy directions as we blasted 3OH!3 in your car, and danced like we weren’t driving down a major highway.

We went weeks without speaking once I moved to Delaware. The moment I sent a text or a Facebook message though, it was as if we talked the previous day. Nothing had changed. We were still close and I was thankful, because you were the very first best friend I found after leaving my hometown.

Now you are a ghost I no longer know; and if it were up to me, our lives would be different. We’d still be best friends, but you’re hung up on a grudge I don’t understand; one I think you’ll come to regret over time. If you’re somehow reading this, don’t get me wrong, I’m not being cocky, I just know who you are despite what you may think these days. It would be easy to just stay angry at what I think is unjust, but like I said before you cut me off:

No matter how much we fight, you will always be my best friend – my sister – and I love you. 

So whether it’s days or whether it’s years, you know where I am and I will always be there for you. I’m not saying I’ll have open arms to catch you in a hug – I will have colorful words to speak – but I will be there.

Sometimes, I Am Me

“How are you doing?”

The voice yanks me out of my own anxiety bubble. Hmm?

“You seemed down yesterday,” my group mate continued scribbling on the daily assessment sheet.

“Oh…” I poked my feet into the ground in a nervous twitch, “Ehh..yeah, I’m good.”

My lips find their way to the placebo coffee I always grabbed on my way into the program. It was a distraction from the empty room that morning. I hadn’t taken my Trazodone in three days, and anxiety was back to clawing at the base of my legs like a lost puppy. The walls were closing in around me.

In group therapy you’re suppose to talk about your problems, but I always felt bad when I talked about myself. I don’t want to explain the depressing history of my life because I hate the facial expressions people cannot control. When they hear of the things I’ve been through in only twenty-two years, they are baffled at how I managed to survive on my own. And the truth is…by a single thread.

Because being me, means my hands are shaking as the room fills up with people I don’t know, so I fill the silence with nervous habits of crossing my legs over and over again, or playing with my hair – poking at split ends. Sometimes I just freak out and I escape to the bathroom like I’ve always done as a kid.

Being me, means having mood swings and destroying everything like a fucking hurricane intent on leaving nothing but disaster behind. One moment I’m fine, and the next, I’m ready to pop your head like a balloon, because I’m just tired…

I’m tired of everything and everyone and sometimes I can’t even move. I dream of all the things I want to accomplish, while I’m sleeping through that time to do them. And I ask myself why I do this – because I know better – but it’s like my brain has decided to take the month off. So I roll with it. What else is there to do?

These medications have my head in a haze. I don’t even know if they’re working. I’m sitting on the floor, like I’ve always done, searching this plain room for an answer I know I’ll never find. And I can feel depression clawing at the brick wall that this Prozac has created in the past month. It holds off the true effects of the disease; I can now lose myself in depressing thoughts without feeling a damn thing. Is that a positive? I’m not sure anymore.

So now I’m simply going through the motions with little to no feeling at all. It’s a better change than feeling everything so intensely, but does that mean it’s helping? Or am I just making myself believe it does?