Swallow by Emma Moralez

      Tripp CC



Swallow

Your place is in the driver’s seat. 

                                                                                    Seek out situations that encourage you to grow. 

                           Nobody owes you closure. Swallow your pride. 

Make amends. 
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The fortunes litter the ground. No one bothers to pick them up. 

On the last day of spring break, I take a forty minute train to Brooklyn. On the way there, I sit in silence. I do not listen to music, just the noise of doors opening and closing, the people hurrying in and out. I am in no rush today. No rush to return. I wait three hours in a random tattoo shop I found after approximately three minutes of research. I write my name on the list as I flip through the binders of flash pieces. I already know what I want, but there’s no harm in looking. The tattoo is quick and painless. I wish all things were like that. 

The pills run out before I see Her next. She said don’t miss a day, She didn’t send any refills. I miss a day. Then another. Then another. I have missed more days than I have taken it. 

I sit on the floor of my friend’s 100 sq. ft dorm as she makes Sex on the Beaches to warm us up before going out into the 30 degree air. The cranberry, orange, and peach mix go down easy. I can barely taste the vodka, just how I like it. A girl I do not know is to my right. She has already warned me that an older boy is just “bad news.” When I ask why, she has no answer. As a psych major, she knows my relationship won’t last. I should enjoy it while I can. She asks for my Instagram, she doesn’t follow me back.

You know when you hear a word over and over until it no longer sounds like a word. California, California, California. The professor says it again and again. She asks if anyone is from there. I forget to raise my hand. 

My fourteen year old sister finds my favorite book while I am away at school. I have read it three times, dog-eared pages, marked up paragraphs, cried over it. She calls me asking if I can explain the ending. How do I explain there isn’t one?

I have been watching the clock. I watch the clock. My therapist says this is an obsessive compulsion, but she doesn’t want to diagnose. I am always watching the clock. 

The doctor said she just needed to lose weight. Her knees can’t handle such a heavy load. Try going gluten free, cut out red meat, cut out all meat, eat more vegetables. It’s not healthy if you add dressing. Don’t drink smoothies, if the fruit is blended it loses its nutritional value. On second thought, fruit has too much sugar. Cut out fruit. Don’t drink your calories. Have you tried black coffee? Just drink water.

You hear one song and instead of being almost twenty, you are fifteen. Suddenly, you feel like your friends don’t really know you. And it’s not their fault that they don’t text you, but it kind of is. And you can’t really get past that they only ask you for homework, but you’d rather be useful than alone. Then the song ends. You finish your walk to class. 

My friend wrote nine pages about a door that wants to fly. The door asks its friends for help. Long story short, the door does not fly. It falls. It falls flat and it kills everything it's ever loved, it doesn’t even know it. I cannot breathe life into doors. But I am afraid of killing and not knowing. 

In Sexual Violence Response training, we learned not to call a spade a spade. Even if you know it’s abuse, your friend might not want to label it as that. Be a good friend, get her help without her knowing. Hold onto her story. Guard her story. Protect her. You are now a co-survivor. Go to SVR. Don’t name it. We aren’t mandated reporters, don’t worry. No one has to know. 

I’ve also sent a prescription for Vistaril, maybe now you can sleep.

Girls with orange tattoos are soft and gentle. Girls with lime tattoos are edgy and mysterious. Girls with lemon tattoos are quirky and loud. Must everything have to be psychoanalyzed. Sometimes a strawberry is just a strawberry. 

In 10 years, I would like to have a house, a job and be married. Marriage as a benchmark feels reductive and backward. My life should not be dependent on how I exist in relation to others, but I guess all of our lives can only exist in relation to others.

The doctor changes my medication from 50mg to 75mg. She says it might help. She says it might make it worse. What if this is all a lie? What if I am pretending to think bad things when really I am perfectly fine? Why would I lie about this? I don’t think I’m lying, but what if I am? I hope I am telling the truth. I am scared of myself. 

Do you dream anymore? Or is every sleep an attempt at finding a silence that does not exist? Is it too cold in here for you? Do you need a blanket? Should I turn the fan on? Is it really hot? Are you feeling stifled? It’s kind of warm, isn’t it? Should I open the window? Are you comfortable? Can you sleep? Will you dream? Will you remember? 

I am afraid of death. The lecturer cries as she remembers being engulfed in a live-art exhibit with her partner. The room was dim, she says. I could feel the cold earth pressed up against me. All was quiet. He looks over at her, maybe this is what dying feels like. She is a little less afraid. 

Stop looking at photos of yourself from three years ago. That isn’t you anymore. But it could be me. I could be that again. I could look like her. I could be her, I promise you. She isn’t you. That is you sick. She is not who you want to be. But you only complimented me when I was sick, what’s my incentive to get better? I don’t feel better. I feel worse. I feel more. 

Sometimes when he feels really really angry, he takes the bus to the Met. Parks himself right in front of Rothko’s No. 16. This is better than punching walls. You can’t punch walls after a certain age without getting looks.

I love you, and I’m moving out today. Three variations of the same note left for three girls. It’s not your fault, it’s your mother’s. Isn’t it our fault? Didn’t we do something wrong?

I had a dream that my brother died and everyone told me, “you are not allowed to mourn him. you did not know him, you weren’t even friends.” Who is my brother, if not my first friend?  

My sister takes a photo every time she cries. I cannot judge her for wanting proof of her pain. I have documented every tear I shed throughout my eighteenth year. 56 occasions. August was a bad month. April was even worse. 

Looking at my body, I'm about to cry. Can we also add pilates on Saturday? She texts me as if four days of exercise is not already enough. Sure, I’ll add it to the GCal ASAP. I am so tired. Sometimes I do not want to be a body. My natural inclination is not to be at the top, I want to be still. 

His soul feels unburdened the longer they are together. He cannot imagine a life without her, but he knows there will be one. Even after she is gone, everything else in the world will feel possible. But what about her? Who carries her burden?

Please stop talking. The other voices are already too loud. You’re only making it worse. 

Hi!!! Hope this finds you well! Wanted to touch base with you. I wake up every hour on the hour each night. The melatonin doesn’t work. Is this just a side effect I have to get used to? I feel cold all the time, is this normal? Is this better than hearing the noise? I don’t have any thoughts in my brain, is this normal? My mind is numb. This is what we want, right? The medicine, is it working? Sorry for all the questions, I hope you’re having a great day!
All the best,

Every few months, the walls close in on me. 

Once upon a time there was a girl and she would get up every day. She would write a very detailed to-do list with at least 5 tasks. She did all of them. She drank half her weight in water and walked 10K steps.  She wrote a list with everything she’s grateful for. She didn’t take any medications because her brain was very strong. She was both mentally and physically well. All around an upstanding girl. Everyone loved this girl. She got exactly 8 hours of sleep and she remembered all of her dreams. She did not fall asleep in the middle of the day and she never missed phone calls from the people who mattered. She handled her alcohol quite well, she never threw up. She ate three square meals a day with a vegetable, a protein, a carb, and only healthy fats.  She “ate the rainbow” as all the nutritionists suggest. She did not snack at night. She slept at night. She did not cry for no reason. She only cried when she was supposed to. 

I picked off my nail polish. Then I picked at the nail. Next thing I know, there’s blood on my hands. Drip drip drop. The blood doesn’t stain the wood. Luckily, it doesn’t stain my clothes. Wouldn’t have been able to fix it myself. Not like I’m allowed to have bleach anyway. 

Please sugarcoat all criticisms you have of me. 
 
You deserve to take up space. The man in the library laughs at her women in higher education sticker. He doesn’t get it, he doesn’t want to. I am over taking up space. I want to be small. I want to curl up in a ball. I want to weigh less than a penny, I want to melt into the walls. I want to disappear for a while until I am completely forgotten. 
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When I was 17, my oldest brother crashed his car into an airport sign. He was drunk and high. He didn’t want to die, he just wanted someone to notice.

I told the doctor I weighed eight pounds less than I actually do so that she will think I am in range and normal. She schedules our in-person visit for eight weeks from now. I can lose eight pounds in eight weeks. My friend says in the worst case scenario I can just sit in a sauna and not eat the whole week before. I think this is doable. Everyone says eight pounds is doable. They even called it healthy. I will be healthy. 

I have lost my mind to the point of paralysis only twice this year. It is February. This is an improvement. 

Take this pill once a day, everyday for the rest of forever. It will fix your issues. You will feel better. Unless you stop taking the pill. Do not stop taking the pill. You need this pill. 

Swallow the pill.

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Emma Moralez is a writer from Redlands, California. She currently studies Creative Writing with a concentration in Non-Fiction at Columbia University. In her free time, Emma enjoys crocheting, reading literary fiction, talking about books, and finding fun new coffee spots.

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