Fucking July

Featured in the final issue of Ink in Thirds, March 2019

Last July, at a friend’s prompt, I wrote what July felt like. During this month, I feel myself turn into a concrete slab. I don’t make eye contact with people. When I feel an emotion–any emotion–I turn away from it, focus on something that means nothing at all. My body remembers the month for what it was once while my mind tries desperately to forget it.

Last Monday I woke up and it was July first and already my body was yawning open it’s mouth full of sadness, trying to consume my mind. I felt my restless legs, felt the twitch in my fingers. I took the boys all over town that day: on a hike, to an aquarium, to the mall, to the zoo. It was as if I thought I could outrun it.

This July I am trying very hard not to reach for the handle of vodka on top of my fridge. My mornings have been useless. I lie in bed until noon. The boys not having school allows me such frivolity although I know I should do something productive. But it takes all that I have just to do a single task a day. Yesterday I went to a meeting and didn’t cry. Yesterday I bought groceries and ran a couple miles on the treadmill without giving up. Yesterday was good. I mean, I still stayed in bed until noon, but otherwise.

Today I tried to clean my house but gave up. Today I planned to do yoga and pilates and return the movies but I didn’t. I did finish reading a book and filled up my gas tank and washed my car so today also was good. I mean, I still stayed in bed until noon, but otherwise.

I probably shouldn’t be listening to Lana Del Rey but I am. I was about to crawl into bed already at 9 pm, when I usually sit down at my desk and here I am at my desk instead, writing something finally, even if it’s only this. I thought up a new spreadsheet I can make. I think this month instead of reaching for the vodka I’ll pursue a series of little goals–minuscule if they need to be–pass the time until it’s over and I feel my face again.