Thanks for the Drugs

This story contains sensitive language and themes.

Thanks for the Drugs

-K.

To What My Generation Calls Adulting:

Thank you for putting a name that acts both like a noun and a verb to what my life has officially become: adulting. Thank you for all the early mornings to just be in the office by nine, working behind a screen all day juggling many hats for a job I hate, and all the late nights that mean nothing besides my lack of a life. Thanks for the flexibility of needing to drop everything I love and enjoy to be who you want me to be but still not perfect enough for you. Here’s to the crappy pay and still living at home with my parents because of said crappy pay and the price tag and interest rates associated with living independently. God, it’s beautiful out here.

Thanks All So Much,

-K.

To My Alma Maters:

           Thank you for six-plus years of promises of a job with six-plus figures upon graduation. For all the lies of endless possibilities but for the little to null experience that all employers are looking for that makes them swipe left over me. Thanks for the $100,000+ of debt that will take all my limbs and organs to pay off if I am lucky. To all the late nights studying, writing papers, and questioning my sanity only to dump me off in the desert of the real world with no map to the promised land that shows me that true insanity is working 9 to 5 with no rhymical typewriter to jam out to in the background. Thank you for proving Einstein’s theory correct and putting it into law. But most of all, thanks for the constant emails of wanting a gift from me in the form of more money. I want money too—sister, can you spare a dime?

Cheers to the Most Expensive Piece of Paper in the World,

-K.

To My Chronic Immune Disease:

           Thanks for joining the party. How did you know I was missing something deadly exciting in my life? Enclosed is all the celebratory champagne, poolside pina coladas, and the glasses of wine after a stressful day I will never be allowed to drink without the torturous pain of my insides beating the shit out of me like Muhammad Ali.

Have a Drink on Me,

-K.

P.S. Sorry for the soaked card.

To My Inner Bitch:

Thanks for being the one constant in my life.

Love to Hate You Too,

-K.

To My Therapist:

           Thank you so much for putting up with all this depressive, anxious chaos compressed into one petite soul and for always saying I’m not crazy when we both know I am. I’m not sure if this is working, but I promised to write thank you cards for what I am most thankful for, but I’m even doing this wrong. I’m trying—I really am.

Thanks for the Drugs,

-K.

To Mom and Dad:

           Thanks for giving me life, and I’m sorry I keep fucking it up.

Love,

-K.

P.S. I promise I’m trying.

To My Siblings:

           Thank you for putting up with my shit and eating my food.

Love Always,

-K.

P.S. If the Talenti Raspberry Sorbet in the freezer is missing, I will break down and cry.

To My Best Friend:

           Thank you for all the late nights talking about books or watching sitcoms to distract me from myself. Thanks for being a friend.

From the Dorothy to Your Rose,

-K.

To My Ex:

           Thanks for being more screwed up than me. You give me hope that I am not that far gone just yet.

Have a Great Life,

-K.

P.S. I want my Xbox back.

To My Boss:

           Thanks for the money and the health benefits.

Your 9 to 5 Hoe,

-K.

P.S. I quit.

To Myself:

           Thank you for never giving up on me. Without your determination, resilience, and fighting spirit, I would not be here today if you just decided to give in: to the suffocating pressure called life, to the dark depressive periods where my inner bitch and her twin sister, the anxious witch, run rampant on your self-esteem, self-image, and feed your head with their echoing whispers of doubt, hate, and overall coaxing to say “fuck this shit.” Thank you for braving every storm one after the next and for your stubbornness to keep moving forward. You have a way of turning the outside world’s opinions of you, your work, and at times, when it even makes you question yourself as a person, you’ve always risen with the determination to prove them wrong. I cannot tell you enough how much I appreciate you–I know it does not seem like I do. I can be crazy, destructive, and downright cruel at times, but you always get back on your feet, covered in mud, blood, and ash, rising like a phoenix, never letting anything defeat you, not even me.

           But I also know despite all this, you struggle. I know you feel as if you're drowning and gasping for air, and a void opened in your chest, and I also know I participate in its vacuum swirl of dread, devouring everything that makes you you. I see the faded tear marks on your face after crying in your car when you say “good morning” every day with a smile on your face. I see the dimness and the slight twitch in your eyes when you say you're fine. I see the Oscar-winning actress going above and beyond for everyone when you're dying inside. I see the woman struggling to find her fire again amongst the ashes, digging up to her elbows to find even the smallest of embers. I see the invisible scars of their words carved onto your skin; I see the blood dripping down as you rub your body raw, trying to wash them away. But most of all, I see you.

           It’s okay not to be OK. It’s OK to cry, scream, and feel what you feel. It’s OK not to be strong. It’s okay to put yourself first and focus all your energy on your health and what you love to be happy. You’ve been putting everyone first for the longest time, even me; now it’s time for you to focus on one person: you. You don’t owe anyone anything; you don’t owe it to your boss to stay in a job you hate just because you’re loyal; you don’t owe it to be perfect in everything you do. You’re human; you are allowed to make mistakes. Hell, you’re supposed to make mistakes to learn from them. Don’t listen to the outside world when they compare you to someone else. Perfection does not equal perfect.

           But most of all, I see you. And that’s all that matters. I will try to get my shit together so you don’t have to worry about me. It’s time for me to worry about you. You are the strongest woman I know, and you have a family and friends who love you. Let them see you too. Most importantly, thank you for just being you.

I Love You,

-K.

P.S. I see you. I hear you. I love you.