the last 36 hours

Wake up. Walk dogs. I need to write. There are these thoughts that are plagu­ing my head. I think I’m go­ing to be okay. Must do art.

These leaves on the ground are enough.

“Sor­ry I’m run­ning late.”

I got through paint­ing. The wa­ter that hits my skin in the show­er feels alive, am I alive? Step out. Oh I’m sad.

I have a flash­back. I’m try­ing to fight my own brain from en­vi­sion­ing my moth­er laid out on the floor be­fore me. I drop down. I cry. I can’t close my eyes. I can’t look down. It’s eas­i­er to see. Breathe. I stand up. I try to re­ply to mes­sages. I pace the floor.

“I’m hav­ing an anx­i­ety at­tack.”

“You shouldn’t be alone.”

It’s been awhile. There’s a lot of catch­ing up, “How was your thanks­giv­ing?” Every time I hear that ques­tion my brain just re­lays back to me “how was the day your moth­er died?”

There’s more fight­ing. I can’t stop be­ing an­gry. I’m dri­ving. “I’m sick of every­thing be­ing about you.” Over­whelm­ing and I’m bit­ing my nails. I didn’t want to leave this late. I’ll make it. I made it. We watch Har­ry Pot­ter.

The snow made me hap­py. The snow made my shoes wet.

The cof­fee was bad but I was falling asleep in the car. Traf­fic kept me from get­ting home. I got home. It took awhile shak­ing to con­vince my­self to cook.

I miss you mom.

I re­ply to mes­sages. My friend wants me to go out. I need to get these projects done. Lat­er I cry. It’s an “I miss you” text and 4 missed calls. I call back. It’s felt like years since we talked like this. You hang up. I’m sad. It be­comes too much. Make your safe­ty net. I’m in the dark in a bath. Tell some­one some­thing. Okay. I did it. I can’t stop freak­ing out. A pill. Asleep.

Slept most of the day away. Man­aged to get up. I beg for the pains in my sides to go away. Bath. Show­er. Dogs out. My cof­fee place is busy to­day. I lis­ten to au­dio. I try to get my brain to fo­cus. I don’t feel dif­fer­ent.

What did she say? Rewind. Write. Okay, projects up. I have to paint. Re­ply to mes­sages. Paint. Look I’m nor­mal. I wish I was nor­mal.

“I just don’t want to be alone.”
 
 

—al­ley schef­f­ki

Flom­mist Al­ley Schef­f­ki is 23 years young, ‘I am the blue rose. Dies ist ein wun­sch für frei­heit.’ Copy­right © 2017 Al­ley Schef­f­ki. Al­ley is also the dri­ving force and host of FLoMM­CAST.

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