cleaning up mistakes i've made

I should be doing homework right now.

I should be writing an annotated bibliography for Mrs. Chadwell's research paper, or studying for my french quiz, or finishing a US History handout. After I finish those things, I should dig out my script for Tracks. I should attend to the mountain of clean laundry strewn across my bed and floor, the remnants of my most recent 6 AM melt-down. I hate getting dressed in the morning. I hate how when I put on clothes, I don't think about what I like, or what's comfortable, or what I want to wear. I think about what might catch Someone's attention. I think about what makes me look skinniest and what makes me look like I still have enough meat to keep myself from blowing away on windy days. Most days, I want the former effect. On some, the latter is neccessary. I shouldn't try on my smallest pair of jeans every morning, and my mood should not have anything to do with whether or not they are snug. I shouldn't be this superficial, this stupid, this plastic person who straightens her hair every morning and practices her pretending smile for the mirror, this person who adjusts the skirt so that it shows a little bit more. I should be better than that.


At school, I should take notes. I should listen to Madame V, and Mrs. Chadwell, and the movies in Conflict Management. I should be diligent, because High School Is Not Forever and I am going to be a Real Grown-Up Person someday. I should think about the going future and the past imperfect, about the Westward Movement, about Beowulf and Grendel, and about how I can better myself. I should not think about him. I should not fill up my notebook with bad poetry and interior monologues and fictionalized transcripts of half-remembered conversations and song lyrics from the mix CD he made me. I should not choose my hallway routes according to which way might lead to him, even subconciously. I should not try to will him to look at me. I should be disappointed when he doesn't look and I should not run to the bathroom to press tissues into my eyes and take too many deep breaths when he does. When we have free reading time in English, I should be getting to the huge pile of books from the library and Allison and my birthday. I should not be reading Wintergirls for the God only knows how many-th time. I should be sane.



I should tell my mom that I need a one-on-one therapy session, but I haven't been to one since December, and I don't want to explain about Zac. I don't want to hear her say the things that I already know about what I should do. I don't want to hear her say that he's wrong for me, that I need to cut him off, that phone calls at one in the morning are not healthy or normal and neither am I. I already know that; it's just that knowing and accepting aren't the same for me. I need to go, but I don't miss that couch, I don't miss crying into her afghan, I don't miss the hazelnut coffee with milk and sugar or the sad look on her face or the reports to my mom or the ugly numbers on the scale or the way she'd smile as I stepped off of it and say how does that make you feel?


I should say, Worthless. Like too much. Like not enough. Like a disgusting waste of an unnecesarily large amount of space. Like shit. But how is that different from any other moment of the day?

I should delete this post like I have every other thing I've tried to write here since thanksgiving. I should let keep pretending that I'm Just Fine, even though I suspect it's quite obvious that I'm far from it. But my shoulds and wills don't measure up.

Caroline

replacing them with ones i've not made yet