F*CK NORMAL

Intro: What the fuck am I doing here? I can’t even kill myself right! I’m such a failure at absolutely everything…except for my children. I did right by them. Elijah…Leila…Eve. They are absolute perfection, which is why I should’ve just killed myself, I don’t deserve them. My dumb ass had to chicken out…again. I won’t do this anymore. I will not ask for help again. I will succeed at killing myself, or I will stop this craziness… Eli…Leila…Eve…

(Overlapping)

What the fuck am I even saying? Can this ever end? This cycle of living. It’ll end when I die, I guess. I don’t even know what I’m doing. I’m stuck… I’m numb. Eli…Leila…Eve

Good! Be numb. Numb is safe… numb is quiet… numb is survival.

Eli…Leila…Eve… …. …. …. … STOP!! (complete silence)

Everything stands still. Every atom is frozen. I hear nothing. I feel nothing. I am nothing.

I am nothing

I am nothing

I am nothing.

Every syllable is pronounced clearly. You are nothing, the ‘Monster’ says quietly, ‘That’s why you deserve to die’.

“Phoenix?”, a woman’s voice cuts through the stillness. “Yes?”, I squeak out, asking, “I’m sorry. What was the question?” To be honest, I was surprised to see a whole human attached to the Hey Dude shoes I had been staring at during the war zone within my head. “Can you tell me your name please?” the Hey Dude lady asked again, this time with an added stomach growl. “My name is Phoenix Olivia Smith”. automatically replying. Questions and answers I’m good at. I can pretend through this line of questioning once more. I’ve already told 4 others my deepest secrets, what’s one more. I answer the woman behind the large, very used wooden desk in a monotone, exhausted tone, but all I could think of was this woman’s hunger. Not the fact that she was hungry, but something about the hunger pains, and the Hey Dudes snapped me out of my scarily determined, ‘Monster’-induced self-berating. She’s me, or at least used to be me, before I lost everything. “I have those same shoes,” I informed the admittance nurse on the other side of the desk. I continued confidently, “They are so comfy, unless you have to be on your feet all day, then I prefer Brookes.” Taken slightly aback, Hey Dude Lady responded, “Thanks! I just got them this week for my birthday!” She snapped her shoes together and spun back and forth in her generic, black office chair. Her smile waned, and reality hit us simultaneously – in another life we could be friends. Not here though. Not in this bare, gray office. She was the professional and I am the loser who couldn’t kill herself. “Anyway,” I say heavily, bringing purpose back to the room. “Yes. Ok”, she says while clearing her throat, “EH HMM” she half coughs and immediately her stomach rumbles again. We look at each other and remember the recent relatability, before she continues the questioning with a small, sad smile. The same clinical, basic, data-seeking, insurance-paying questions I’ve already answered three other times this evening. At this point, I’m physically, mentally, emotionally drained and just ready for a bed, a blanket, some sort of nicotine and however many sleeping pills they are allowed to hand me. The good, obedient, people-pleasing person I am answered the questions respectfully:

Name: Phoenix Olivia Smith

DOB: November 11, 1991

SS# 555-18-5551

Address: Bum-Fuk Missouri

And the last one, “Why are you here Phoenix?”

“I need to learn how to want to live”.