Menagerie

They say you become an amalgamation of the people and things you love; this is true. What they don’t tell you is that you’ll also become a strange potion of all the people who were there with you, in the thick of it, during your treatment and recovery. Because you can’t help it— treatment basically requires you to be vulnerable with the individuals in group with you. To make progress, you need to share, talk about what you’re going through, process. They force you to be raw and open with these people then expect you to never talk to them again, two ships passing in the night.

I am many things, all in their image. I am a mixture, a crushing of experiences that brought me inexplicably closer to recovery with each hour. As my friends from treatment deteriorate, as many of them pass, I will remain who I am with them in my heart. My soul has been colored by their handprints, and I never want to wash them off. I have lost 6 friends from treatment with more to come. This is for you.

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I am a hospital elevator, taking you always to the fifth floor, even when that's not where you want to go

I am sidewalk chalk and one lonely crawdad

I am four packs of contraband Truly, never chilled

I am three dots of tie dye on a single sock

I am eating breakfast in five minutes; I am the world’s largest croissant, I am an only-onion sandwich, I am “grilled veggies”, I am twelve pieces of toast

I am a charged rock, teeming with power from the moon

I am an egg in the bushes, I am a rock in your pocket, I am hundreds of bracelets

I am “the breakdown room” and asking the art therapist if crying into watercolor will impact the paint

I am a turtle with an actograph

I am a single cigarette, passed between lips in hushed tones

I am space buns and winged eyeliner and a mask that ties behind my ears

I am nightly tea, and I am a trip to Target to buy 12 types of tea for our apartment

I am Tiger King and Carol Baskins

I am a pink pillow, run ragged from daily use

I am “Cigarette Daydream” played at 6:30 am

I am henna, smeared across a cheek from sleep

I am back-to-back, drawing in unison without words. I am, immediately after, an empty table at breakfast

I am a tip to the FBI hotline about Osama bin Laden

I am Calabria, I am Anomia, I am Contact & Celebrity

I am a flush check done through tears

I am a warped funhouse mirror, inexplicably placed on the ward

I am milk, pumping through my veins, crying out my eyes. I am “milk snacks” and 2% and skim and just one time, whole milk

I am two bathing suits and a heated therapy pool

I am bubbles drifting across an open lake

I am yogurt pretzels eaten in quartz-littered gravel; I am a crater, a path, and ten too many steps