A Tiniest Gust of Wind: the Impossibility of Recovery (Dear Cookie Monster)

A Tiniest Gust of Wind: the Impossibility of Recovery

Dear Ana,

Thanks for your letter, that was really cool of you to write that.

But right now I’m sitting here in bed wanting bread and sandwiches and noodles and milk and M&M’s and potato chips and juice and to watch videos while I eat them all.

And maybe go out for a second round of more food once that’s done. The stores close soon, especially the bakery. You’re going to miss your chance. Someone else is going to buy the bread you want if you don’t hurry and go get it.

Those words you wrote can’t take away that wanting.

I am alone, in bed, tired, heavy. What’s the point of trying to do things differently? I don’t want to feel like this. If I eat, I can be alive for a few moments in time and the pain will dissipate for a short while. I live for those moments.

You say you want to help me. But how?

What can you possibly do? You want me to tell you what I need, but I don’t know what I need. I just know I want food and to stay in bed in this dark cave away from everyone. I want to be numb. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be anywhere.

I’m not eleven when I write this.

I’m not “Cookie Monster.” I am older, more cynical. Tired. I don’t know when I became like this. Picking myself off the floor everyday only to shatter in an instant has worn me down. Trying to be different is like building a teetering Jenga tower that falls apart with just the tiniest gust of wind.

Let’s just eat, OK?

Enough of this. I really like what you’re saying, but it’s only words.


Whoever this is

P.S. Dear Reader,

What do you do when you don’t know what to do?



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