Now I will tell you a secret.
This flat and quiet, this straight line silence. This is the worst. This is the fear.
This is the empty thing I take to the psychiatrist on Monday, the thing I hold up to her, shrieking, LOOK AT IT!
She will stare back, as blank as the page.
This is what I am always watching for, this and a waist that stretches past its welcome. And maybe the hair coming out in clumps. These are the deal breakers: I have to have my words, I cannot get fat, and I would prefer not to be bald. All three lost together would seem to outweigh the benefit of psychiatric medication.
My hair seems firmly attached, my waist is not expanding, but it is as if my brain has chosen to fully occupy itself with the task of evaluating white paint samples.
Or maybe going crazy.
But I have been those things and survived. I have never been without words. I am scrambling, shaking them by the shoulders, pinching, slapping, throwing water in their face. But they just keep A/Bing Confident White and Spun Cotton, holding them pensively up to the light.