withdraw

lying in bed, i considered how far i could get. i have my passport with me here at school. if i went ahead and printed out the papers i have written, i would only have incompletes in half my classes. i thought about what i would take with me: cds, the few books i have been waiting to read, my computer to write, maybe a picture or two (maybe not). i thought about what i would leave behind: my cell phone, friends, family, trash in my trash can, unfinished papers, untaken final exams, the to-do list next to my bed. and then i remembered it was sunday. the bank is closed on sunday. i wouldn't be able to withdraw my savings.

listening to my phone ring, i began to cry every time i cleared the call. not because someone was calling, but because i didn't have the strength to answer it. i didn't want to talk; i couldn't talk. and then i would cry more, terrified. terrified that i'm not okay. not as brave as people think i am. not as sane as i claim to be.

watching my motionless ceiling fan, i thought about taping a note to my door that would read, "i need to be alone right now. thanks." or maybe i wouldn't add the "thanks." but then i remembered that i am never alone even if i did add the sign. i can't be alone. i can hide all day in my room. i can hide all week in my room. but my brain keeps working. my thoughts twirl and tumble and lie. my thoughts demand attention, demand an audience. and so i listen. i trust them.

"it's okay. i'll be okay," i half-heartedly whisper.