it’s not like i’m on fire. i sort of miss being on fire. when i was on fire at least i knew it wasn’t just me, that my illness was alive, scorching. there were claw marks in everything. it was so bad it was a brand. everyone could see, you know? but now i am just lazy. now there’s nothing but empty. now i’m an adult and i’m handling thing. the fire is still burning, it’s just that most people die from the smoke inhalation, you know? like i look fine. but my lungs don’t work. i’m saying i fucked up and my future is dying. my dreams are curled up somewhere, smothered. i’m handling it really well. everything looks good. i think. it’s just i can’t even feel what’s been happening. it’s just i think i should feel what’s been happening, and i would be scared about what this means, but i can’t be. did you know you can be in the burning house and also outside of it at the same time. my therapist says this is disassociation. i tell her. if some part of me is in and some part is out, we both win. it’s just it got too heavy to carry so i left my heart in there. it might actually even be a good thing. i don’t know. i can’t tell. i can’t feel anything.
I was a cashier at a major Home improvement store and I had a customer complaining about an employee at another store. There was an issue with his purchase so I called my supervisor, and he kept complaining, and said "But, you know... he wasn't white." And laughed. And my supervisor laughed with him. And when he said "Look, she doesn't know what to say!" and laughed at me, my supervisor laughed at me too. So I told my "not white" store manager and that bitch supervisor got demoted. Fuck em both