he lays barebacked on the off-white herringbone patterned tile. he needs to sweep, or mop – there is no clear evidence of a mess, but the overwhelming spirit of the grime ghost lurks and lingers. he sees clumps of his own hair on the shower floor. he recognizes these fragments of his body better than the whole he sees in the mirror.
he shivers. he sweats. he shivers again. [you are so weak. so dramatic. addicts handle withdrawal symptoms with more dignity.] hangxiety – hangover + anxiety. he likes portmanteaus. he likes words in general. he begins to question the etymology of the word anxiety. he believes it derives from the word angst, because they sound similar. he is wrong, but he commends himself for having the thought anyway because he knows that none of his friends would think about the etymology of a word so that means he is an intellectual. [that is only because you intentionally surround yourself with people who don’t care about the same things you care about. you preach at them knowing well that they are not interested in contesting your ideas. you only do this to feel better about your own level of intelligence, and, by doing so, you demean the people around you. you make them feel like shit. you make them hate you. if you were actually put in a position to defend your own thoughts, you would be embarrassed by your lack of knowledge. you are a fraud.] he gags, retches, slides closer to the bowl. he tastes bile in every crevice of his mouth. he wishes that instead, it was he who was carried through the pipes, into the sewer, into the sea. he wishes that he could evaporate, be carried into the clouds and befriend the sky. he shudders at the thought that he would, then, be forced at some point to fall back to earth. he hates falling. “basophobia,” he thinks, “i bet my friends don’t know that word.”
he wonders if people without mental health disorders feel hangxiety. he wonders if they feel anxiety at all. he wonders – no, he knows – that no matter what they feel, they don’t feel it as bad or as strongly or as powerfully as he feels it. he wonders if there is anyone on earth, or anyone who has ever existed on earth, or anyone who has ever existed on any planet in any realm, who has ever felt as bad as he did. [this is the most disgusting display of narcissism that i’ve ever heard. you are literally a straight white cisgendered male. to even give this thought credence is to diminish and insult the millions of people suffering throughout the world. your performative activism is see-through, even by yourself. you don’t care. you are the oppressor.] he thinks about a genie. he wonders whether, if a genie approached him, he’d wish away his anxiety or his depression. he knows the genie would never let him rid himself of both. he doesn’t even think about getting rid of the dissociation because he knows that’s too far fetched, even in his daydream.
he tries to sip some water. he winces at the thought of beer, and he throws up at the thought of tequila shots. he hates them now. he will befriend them again later. he wonders if he’s an alcoholic. he thinks about his father, and the genetic curse he inherited. he wonders if his father would hate him or love him or if they’d even be close enough for him to tell the difference. he doesn’t drink every day. he must be safe. [you give yourself an out because you operate on a binary of alcoholism vs. non-alcoholism. you are too weak to face the thought that you use alcohol as a coping mechanism. you are too weak to face the world without it. you are too weak to fight your demons, so you satiate them with poisons. you are too weak to face the fact that this only makes them stronger.] he sends a text to his friends about how great last night was. he asks what time they’re running it back today.
he feels emasculated. he wonders if this thought is a form of inherent misogyny taking shape. he’s a feminist. he doesn’t believe in gender roles. he doesn’t believe in masculinity. he knows that a woman in his position would take an advil, get a coffee, and go to work. he questions whether that, too, is a sexist generalization. [your whole existence is dictated by perception. in fact, nobody perceives you. nobody listens when you scream fuck the patriarchy, fuck the system, fuck the capitalist. if they do, they roll their eyes at how deeply you desire their approval. you have never changed one mind. men, women, non-binary, animals, trees – they all find you repulsive.] he opens instagram to check how many people liked his story from last night. he relishes the dopamine high of seeing so many numbers. he thinks that people like him.
he needs to get up. he needs to carry on with his day. he needs to live his life. he places his hands on the tile and pushes himself up to a crouch. he washes his face with water. he looks anywhere and everywhere he can except the mirror. he knows he will not see himself in the reflection, or he will see himself and not recognize the face, or he will see himself and recognize the face and then question whether the face is really his and then he will not recognize the face again.
he is weak.