when kafka said she is a living fire
...i felt that
when my mom comes over to help me unpack the last of my belongings i left at jeremy’s house (no longer our house, or my house but is now jeremy’s house), my apartment is aglow with a rare afternoon sunshine. my bedroom/living space is filled with medium sized boxes filled with clothes that are messily thrown in without care, plastic garbage bags full of clothing hangers, and two carry on suitcases stuffed with clothing that have been carelessly left in there for the past two months. it does not look like the packed up belongings of 33 year old woman but rather, one of a college student maybe. these things leave almost no room to walk around in my apartment. when i notice this, i wonder how i will fit a couch. i wonder if it would be strange to just have a bed and no chairs. i wonder if two sitting chairs would work better. i wonder -
my mom interrupts my adderall hazed thoughts and tells me where we should begin in the unpacking process. my mom is methodical and organized in a way that my brain doesn’t allow me to be, even on the highest dosage of adderall i am allowed. my mom has been patient with my lackadaisical and incompetent packing process. i wonder if it’s because jeremy’s laundry list of complaints about me hurt her heart as much as it hurt mine. i had called her after i had read jeremy’s flurry of angry text messages, crying out of a deep shame at my inability to remember to make cleo’s daycare appointments and my tendency to leave moldy coffee cups by my bedside. i wiped my dripping snot away with my sleeve and used the same sleeve to wipe the tears from my eyes. i didn’t give a fuck about anything. all i could think about was i was a bad partner because i was messy, i was incompetent, i was not good at being an adult.