One day I’ll sit down and write every detail of the year and a half I basically lost…

But until then…here’s something I found that I wrote during that time period.

“You Made This Happen”

There’s a credit card envelope on my kitchen table that I will most likely never open. I don’t like credit cards, they cause anxiety, they ruin people’s lives, and I’d much rather just deal in cash or use my bank card. However, credit cards like me. They like me so much that many of them decide to visit my house, only to meet my paper shredder.

This envelope escaped my shredder because it carried a message. On its white background I read an orange strip that says “YOU MADE THIS HAPPEN!” in excited letters.

This is talking about the credit score I have accumulated by paying my bills early. But when I look at this piece of paper that is not what comes to mind.

You made this happen, the envelope says. I don’t even bother to open it because its original meaning is lost to me, instead I am focused on the new meaning that has swallowed up the original and is staring at me, taunting me while I stand and gape at this stupid envelope.

You made this happen to yourself.

This thing that seems to punctuate every aspect of your life…Yes, you did that to yourself, you made this happen.

Normal people don’t try to jump off of hotel balconies, normal people don’t drink all day trying to pass out, normal people don’t have to take nine pills a day to function, normal people don’t cry at the drop of a hat and scream at people in the next breath, normal people are not like you.

You made this happen.

So yes, I did make this happen. I’m angry now and I’m holding the envelope and shaking it. My mother has not yet seen this, she’s still obliviously chopping vegetables next to the kitchen sink. I start to shift my weight from foot to foot and seethe. I did this, yes, but I’m trying to get better. I’m taking my pills, I’m trying. I’m trying dammit. I’m trying to get better. I can’t stop this from happening, I made this happen but I’m trying to get better.

“TAKE THIS AWAY FROM ME!” I yell. My mother drops the knife she’s holding and it lands two inches from a dog.

“Its just a credit card application, tear it up.” She says.

I sigh and tear up the application, taking care to tear the YOU MADE THIS HAPPEN in to little pieces. Stupid credit card company. They shouldn’t print things that have such a negative double meaning.


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