By: Lizzie Reezay
I realized this summer that I don't want to get better. I don't want to give up the crying and creativity, my all nighters, the out of control.
My mind captured into a painful focus, racing through tunnels and channels of connective thoughts. My hand sprinting across a page, loopy handwriting containing fragments of whatever I'm orchestrating.
I don't want to get better.
When I run away without a plan and I march down streets I've never been on and I see the world through a blurred lens, my mind guiding me on and on and on away from being found— I don't want to get better.
When I lay on my back in a field and I can see past the sky, and my company are the sounds of my songs and the depth of my thoughts. As hours go by, I feel at the heart of community, so I don't want to get better.
When there are different essences for how each person feels. When someone's words eject these hints of chaos in their tone. When I feel their temper whispering louder and louder, buried under years of disillusionment and when I pull it closer to me so I can see it better, I'm able to feel the closest thing to hell their life has fallen into and I let that anger carve scars into me, because I don't want to get better.
I don't want to get better because I don't want to lose my laughter and joy at every word a person says, my delight in someone's love.
I don't want to lose my apathy at following stupid laws I disagree with. I don't want to give up my defiance against authority, my cruel logic that can wrap around weakness and manipulate chaos. When I mix a night out with a bit of manic and I'm slipping in this elated confusion, my mind leading me every which way and I laugh and laugh and laugh and entertain.
They say this is an illness, but I am happier as I unravel more and more. And when I've escaped all the way out of stable, I've arrived at truth. The place of isolation and dejection, pure pessimism and it's counterpart: all openness and see through, believing everything is good in the world— Within all of those labyrinths are hidden the purest truths.
Knowing stranger's emotions.
Captivated by their gestures.
Trusting the whole world.
The laughter at every conversation, when every detail of the plants and the sunlight, the wind and the ocean unveils as these spectrums of emotions. When my brain is filled to the rim, overflowing with an encompassing thankfulness for all the facets of normal in my life.
When I've escaped with a guy, and all his words pouring out feel like the most exciting novel storyline and my mind is illustrating all his arguments and adventures. I dig deep enough to find where his insecurities have arisen from, but he never found mine. I talk about trespassing with my best friends and he shares all the times he shoplifted liquor and I can taste his confusion but amusement at his regrets. I memorize his intensity and I let myself come on so strong because I haven't enough energy to edit myself down.
He stills all my stirred up emotions and I cling onto all those remnants of feeling understood. When I'm away from him, all his emotions they crash off me into poems and they're interwoven in my prayers and when he's gone, he's unwound me even more and now I want to get better.
I'm listening to this pouring down rain and I think of everyone who's stolen a part of me: who is holding onto pieces of my emotions, my thoughts because I've given them away. And I feel so filled up with parts of everyone I've loved. I start to forget all of this confusion, deny all the phases. I'm making it up. I'm making it up. I must've made it all up.
When my heart starts to beat faster, and my eyes start blinking so rapid with my thoughts and I'm straining to keep up with all these allusions I'm creating between faith and driving, a cat's life and the way I love— I'm not getting better.
I fail a class. Or I crash a car. Or I lash out at someone I love. Or I forgot to eat too many times and now my friends notice I'm losing weight. And so I try to get better.
When I'm exhausted at the end of the day, but then my head crashes into a hint of an emotion I read somewhere, I'll stay up late writing for hours and hours, my eyes lighted up by my phone, thumbnails tapping into a glass screen: And I know it'll be morning until I'm able to stop, but I don't want to get better.
I think of it as wasted time. Sometimes I do. That this is just draining all my energy, slowly diminishing my potential. That's when I want to get better. Want to focus, on my own accord. But then I remember how I don't feel safe at the thought of being in order: I still haven't found all the film negatives to myself.
Somewhere living in all this, I made these brain states my home and I'm too far away from anything else. Now I'm alone crying because someone far away has been wounded in a war or watched their sister die or felt hunger pangs their whole life. I don't get out of bed the next day because my empathy dried out and my body just needs to pause before taking in the most recent shooting.
Contemplating the meaning of a world where justice is a mere illusion. Knowing I'd want to kill myself in a world without a Supreme God. And it's fitting, how that epiphany isn't coming from a depressed mind, because the world has always felt random, unjust to me. Meaningless. Transient. Mere pleasure, shifts of emotional phases: and it's only comforting if there is something more, stabilizing everything.
My whole life I've loved to be overwhelmed and destroyed by brokenness and injustices. I feel protected when I'm trapped within my own guilt and hurt. I don't want out of it, I don't want to get better.
The chaos is peaceful.
The stress is my normal.
These emotions have always been mine.
Stuck wandering through Heaven and Hell and I wonder if it is sinful to want to stay longer. My life's running faster and I feel like my wavelengths differ too much from those around me. But I feel so inspired by them, I'm writing out paragraphs of affirmation emails all afternoon. And when I start to feel isolated, racing after something no one else sees: that's when I know I need to get better. That's when I submit, surrender.
When it stacks up into anger or crashes down to nothing, I know I'm getting worse. But no length of time in the numbness could prepare for the shock when its gone.
I never planned on losing her, but I land here again, and again. I crave this life of disorder, a world controlled by impulses and comfort and a focus so intense of existing outside time.
And I could steal back control, but who am I to gain sovereignty beyond the whims of disorder? I can't stop being her because there'd be nothing left to lead.
Lately I've needed to avert myself from reality because there's no one left to start over with. I'm an addict and I wonder if it’s sinful to want to stay here longer. I never planned on losing her but for now I know I need to. I'm betting on these prayers to give back to me a recognizable self.