The New Me

by Halle Butler

But what would have been the point, I would be alone no matter what. The volume of last night, the volume of people, the beer, the volume of the sound of my own voice spilling out of me, the feeling of my own voice in my throat, nothing accomplished, the sheer volume of everything I was unable to accomplish last night covering me, a dome, a crate, a cloud, a blanket. Better to be inside, better to be sick like I am now than to be out not accomplishing what I thought I might accomplish. Bitter, my whole body, my whole insides, everything about me that my body makes but that isn’t of my body—thoughts feelings personality—bitter for having to live in my shitty body, and my body dittoing the sentiment back to its master. Better to be inside forever. Each breath is a punishment. I want to stand, walk smoothly to my window, open it wide, feel the chill, feel the winter, feel the wind, and then the sidewalk.

You can’t ask someone to help you without letting them know you’re different than advertised, that you’ve been thinking and feeling strange things this whole time. That you’re uglier, weaker, more annoying, more basic, less interesting than promised.