A day full of (tracked) worries

1. I woke up to a loud “72” in my head, my heart beating out of my chest. I need to confirm how old Uncle Arnie was when he died. Was he 72, or is this a warning about ma? Oh god, then I only have two years left with her…

2. I mourn who I could’ve been without you. But I think back to myself as a child, buck-toothed and curling into their palms. Would I have lost myself anyway?

3. Is the dog barking a warning? I remember he barked at this time-of-day last Tuesday, and we came home safely. I need to stop trying to find meaning in meaningless.

4. Closing the car door, I ask myself is today the day the uber driver will confirm, “Going to Faywood?” Yes, I'll answer. “No, you’re not,” and another man will pin me down in the backseat? I'll enjoy every second. God, I'm skin starved. But what if they're disgusted by my hairy legs? I arrive unharmed and wonder if next time I should shave just in case.

5. I’m 43 but I didn’t make it past 20. Where do I begin… there’s something wrong developmentally. Decades of pretending, acting out storylines and never living in reality, and she’s the reason. Will I be stuck with her? What if I never break free?

6. What if ma dies and I’m without an adult? I’m still a child, living in my childhood bedroom, with no control over this hoarder house. I’ll be responsible for calling a junkyard, and all the neighbors will know. Ma wouldn't let this happen to me. Repeating it over and over has to make it true.

7. I analyze how much I cry (twelve times today). I'm angry my dad is gone. I'm livid she gets to live. I'm angry my mom's body snaps and aches, with migraines every moment of every day. Why does everyone else get to live their life while she deteriorates?

8. I remind myself my aunt battled worse, and she’s still alive. Jessie’s father is 92 with health issues, but he's still thriving. This is enough to confirm my mother will not die at 70 or 72.

9. I worry the pale-yellow candlelight flickering on her ceiling might make me fall in love again. Maybe I could stay here, not only in this dimly lit room, but with her, even though I was ready to leave her an hour ago.

10. I usually murmured amongst my family oh so-and-so didn't look well. I felt sad, but it quickly faded. But next family function... the second I hear someone say my mother looks unwell, I will lose my mind.

11. Is my writing too restrained? Does it elicit any emotion?

12. You know no one cares, right? I say this to myself nearly every day, whenever my heart sinks. Knowing I will never dig deep enough to find my soul’s depths.