Gold Star

“Mrs. Westlin? We have it here. Are you going to wait in store for it to be filled?” DUH, why else would I come inside? She is clearly annoyed with me now; I can feel her frustration pressing in on me. Maybe it's just me, though; maybe this is just her job, and I'm just a customer, and this is a normal exchange between two people. I cannot tell the difference. I sit down. The chairs are attached, and they are too close together. It feels like fake metal arms and hard hunter green cushions; is this even considered a cushion? There are three people also waiting; we are spaced out so no one has to sit next to anyone else. One person looks at me, a younger man, probably in his 40s. I wonder what drug he is waiting for. I telepathically urge him to avert his wandering eyes. An older lady smiles at me; I turn my head quickly in the other direction, pretending I didn't notice. I'm sure my skin is turning red; it does that often. Rosacea can be sneaky. I bury myself in my tablet, working on my book. My hands are frosty and raw; I'm having difficulty typing. I keep hitting the wrong buttons. Frustrated, I switch to Facebook to people-watch from the safety of my iPad. Hidden behind a screen, I can look at my friend's friend's boyfriend, whom I will never meet, but I want to know all about his life. Looking at all my “friends'” lives, one is getting married, another is having a baby, and jealousy starts to boil within me. Some of my friends are going traveling; they will most likely not ask me to come. I will be used as childcare, as someone to mock and talk about while they are sipping champagne at a fancy dinner in a foreign country I will never get to go to. My friends just need me for something; they never want to actually be with me. They are just using you, June. My mind is now confused and turning flips inside my head. Do my friends really like me, or don't they? How can I tell? I care for my friends; I hope I get the same in return. At least I can always rely on Edward. "Mrs. Westlin?" Finally, my drugs are ready. I quickly grab the toilet paper and cheese and check out. Sweet, 12 rolls for only $3.99; I knew I loved Walgreens. Thank god it didn’t burn down! But I'm sure Edward will complain about the lack of “softness.” “Have a good day!” I will not. I am almost running out of the store to the safety of my car. I deteriorate the rest of the day. Tumbling down a greasy slide, hitting my head on both sides back and forth as I decline - like those hilarious videos you see on America’s Funniest Home Videos of the kids going down slides. Have you ever tried climbing back up a slide? Without socks on, you can sometimes manage to get halfway before you fall again. But with socks on you know you won’t make it off the ground so do you even try? I love watching Peter try at the play places. Once I am home, immediately I am back in my safest place that beckons and calls me when we are apart. I have laid in my bed so much that there is a groove in my spot. I attribute it to all the weight I have gained since going on so many medications. I was 194 pounds the day I gave birth to Peter; now I am 230. I am fat. I am ugly. I hate myself. I don’t know who the person in the mirror is, she is not me and never has been. Most days, my body doesn’t belong to me either. As I’m fumbling with my phone to text Edward: I am almost in tears. I want to cry. Cry you stupid fat girl. That’s all you know how to do successfully anyways. So I embarrass myself when the tears don't come; in my head, I am crying, but my eyes aren't working. Why can't I cry? I attribute it to my medication keeping up the wall that is the barrier between being unstable and fine. Oh right I’m fine. I’m fine. I’M FINE I’M FINE I’M FINE. And so I word-vomit a text with beautifully manicured trembling hands to Edward: "I was in Walgreens, and I was checking out, and the guy asked me, 'How are you?' and I said, 'Fine, thanks,' but I don't think he believed me. Then I was leaving and driving home, and I thought how stupid it was to ask other people how they are when really they don't care; it's just a thing people do. I thought, 'What is the whole point if no one really cares?' and then I thought, 'I sometimes don't care at all,' and then I thought, 'What's the point of my life if I don't even care?'” He responded by explaining that Peter will be home soon and that I do care about people, and that he didn't know what else to do. He asks me to tell him about my blog, or a new show, or a book I'm reading. I loathe every conversation with him. I love him so so so so so so so much. "I don't watch TV anymore; it doesn't interest me.” It is a waste of my life, what's left of it. “I'm sorry.” That's all we say to each other anymore. I don’t know what ‘I’m sorry’ actually means anymore, it is just words. “I love you” “How are you” “I’m sorry” “Nice weather today” “No” “You look nice today” “Stop you’re hurting me” There is no difference among these phrases.