Chapter 49
I’ve been lying in bed for nearly a week.
Dipping my hand into a family-size box of Frosted Flakes in between episodes of Survivor.
I break down in choked sobs as Jeff Probst snuffs torch after torch.
Mom’s too cheap to buy tissues so I use toilet paper instead.
A roll a day. Store brand, single-ply, the kind that rubs you raw but it does the job.
I haven’t gone to school. Or work. Covid, once a deadly pandemic, is now just a good excuse. A solid lie to lean on when you’re actually just heartbroken.
This is worse than the dull ache of loneliness or the skin-crawl of anxiety.
This is all my worst fears combined, drowning me, swallowing me whole.
I’m unlovable. I’m unworthy. I’m too much and not enough at the same time.
I’m a child. I’m stupid. I’m naive. I’m ugly.
I’m too sensitive. Too emotional. Too angry. Too fucking angry.
I want to be grateful that I’m feeling so much.
Unthawed after years of being numb. Mr. Korgy unlocked something in me, a depth that I didn’t know was there before.
Maybe gratitude will come with time. Maybe someday I’ll stop crying because it’s over and will smile because it happened or whatever.
Or maybe that’s just one of those things people say to keep sad people chugging forward so they don’t have to deal with them, like “It gets better” and “Time heals all wounds.” Maybe time doesn’t heal wounds and it won’t get better and I’ll never stop crying because it’s over.
Jeff snuffs another torch. The tribe has spoken.