Fried Eggs

Last night was the last of my delusion. The finale felt like intentionally losing grip of a surfboard and letting the wave completely crash over me, carrying me underwater all the way to shore. It hit so hard; in an instance my head became flooded with all the visions of the familiar surroundings of my past - waking from my nightmares and being rocked in my mother’s arms, standing on a snow covered hill and looking up at the cotton-candy night sky, tasting my tears the way I did as a child, and the fire in my closet the night my dolls turned their heads. My entire chest collapsed; I thought air would never fill my lungs again. She spoke to me, with a reassuring tone this time. She told me to be brave and to hold on just a little while longer. She suggested that I get out of bed and write my emotions down on paper so I could remember them more clearly, but unfortunately I didn’t take her advice. Thus, my description of the end of my delusion is not as authentic as it could be; this is all I can recall right now. Yes well, tough shit, idiot. Now you suffer.

After almost drowning, I think I actually slept well last night. This doesn’t happen often. For about a year now, I’ve feared the nighttime, for I know I will be walking along the poolside with my eyes half closed, unable to fully open them. I’ve been feeling the same way I did when I was twelve years old. For a few months, Sundays became the enemy - as the days of the week passed, I was petrified knowing that Sunday was fast approaching. For some reason, to this day I don’t know where the fear came from, I would do nothing but cry all Sunday night long. Seriously, you’re fucked up, what the hell was your problem? It got so bad I made my mother sleep with me some nights, with my bedroom door fully opened and my lamp turned on. Once again, I’m afraid to sleep, to try and close my eyes. She whispers to me what it is I should do, shouldn’t do, and should have done differently. Her ideas and opinions always clash with mine. “Just say it already, it’s going to be okay, it’s for the best!” I fight back as best I can but can’t ever seem to tune her out. “Don’t you want to wake up tomorrow morning and NOT feel like a bag of shit?!” When she’s feeling very persistent she stands me in front of the mirror. She asks me to repeat what she says. It’s like I’m rehearsing for my lines and praying for the courage to say them aloud. I wish she’d just leave me alone. Oh shut the fuck up, you know you need me AND you know I’m right.

Last night, somehow, the courage found me. I made my performance as flawless as I could and when it was all over I could breathe again. I held nothing back, the words made sense and the vision was becoming so clear I felt somewhat free. It was ridiculous, pathetic, glorious and new, all at the same time.

This morning was rather pleasant, and I felt wonderful. I got out of bed at a quarter past eight and dressed for school. I could feel her smiling at me, and when I looked in the mirror I realized I was smiling too. I don’t need the medication my doctors prescribed me, or the advice of my therapist I suddenly stopped seeing. I feel happy now. You really should have at least called her to say you weren’t going anymore. That’s completely rude, you should be ashamed. I have finally put things where they belong. I know now that you can’t choose or control your nightmares, but when I’m awake, I can fully open my eyes. I can choose my own reality, and so I decided to bring my delusion to its end. Finally, you stupid fuck.