I feel my heart beating hard and fast. It is hot, it is humid. The air lays on me like a quilt. I think about my father. He was always right, but never said anything. He recycled diet soda cans and glass beer bottles. He never said “You have to be successful in order to be happy.” Instead, he bought us clothes, sent us to college. He was successful. He was strong. He would never be me, lying in bed, sweating, paralyized.

My throat is dry. In my mouth, there is no saliva. With my tongue, I can feel plaque on my teeth. I think - I don’t mind misery. I want to give myself geometric tan lines while lying in the backyard. No one will know. I can take off my shirt in the bathroom at parties and laugh about how embarrassing the triangles and rhombuses will be if anyone sees me. No one will. I want to scratch my belly button until it is sore and scabs over. It will hurt for a week, and I won’t be able to keep from scratching it. I want to cut my fingernails down too far. When I press my fingers against the palm of my hand I will feel the small amount of pain where my too-short nails dig into the pink skin on my finger. I want to do this to prove that I’m fine with some suffering.

My heart, beating too much, I can feel it in my stomach. My chest burns down to my gut. I want vegetables for my stomach, I want water for my throat. But I’m afraid, what if I open my door and it looks like Hiroshima after being attacked by Little Boy? Maybe instead of a living room there will be buildings reduced to rubble, children crawling over shattered stone, calling for their parents.