Saturday, Oct. 10, 2020
4:23 a.m.
<< [ Am I Chaos? Are You? ] >>
I ignore that too, because I am pregnant and should be minimizing stress right now. Last week when we talked and I tried to console her, she drank too much, then did more shots while we talked, then cut herself and took pictures of it and sent me the pictures of her cuts.
Chaos? Are you chaos for me?
I try to articulate to my husband that, no, she could never be chaos to me. I was the definitive guide on chaos in my prime.
Husband says once it's in you, it never leaves. Husband says, "the dying embers of your chaos dwarf whatever she thinks she has."
I feel my chaos roar from his easy chair, "Bitch I wasn't done." He protests, "I was just resting for a minute!"
He screams, "This is what happens when I go to the bathroom for a sec???"
The things I don't tell her: when I was nineteen I ruined a party by cutting myself with one of the host's steak knives. I later threw up on myself and had to be changed. I do not remember the puking, but I do remember my unattractive female friend in the bathroom with me and me saying "no, no" because I thought she was propositioning me, not helping. I woke up sitting upright on the couch in my combat boots and a male friend's hoodie.
The things I don't tell her: I have two arrests under my belt.
The things I don't tell her: no, you are not chaos, you could never be chaos to me. Your tiny cat scratch hesitation wounds with some flimsy blade you dug out of your Venus razor? Bitch please.
The things I don't tell her: I remember holding my skin together at sixteen because I cut so deep I hit fat and I was worried this would be the time I had to go to the hospital.
Ask me how many pictures of that I texted my friends. My chaos howls, "ZERO."
My husband tries to remind me, it's not a competition. I know.
I know.
This is why I'm ignoring it rather than engaging.
It's not a competition.
I feel my chaos add: but if it were, I would win.