It’s 11:20 AM and I’m sitting on the couch on the first floor of Gaylord.
I know that 11 AM isn’t exactly insomnia hours, but I’m running on a collective three hours of sleep from a nine-hour attempted sleep session. It’s the best sleep I’ve gotten this week, but worse than my already medically declared horrible sleep. So, I’m counting it anyway.
It’s foggy outside, which means the air is sticky and will ruin my hair, but I like it anyway.
It’s the pattern of my life. I love things that ruin me.
I love driving with no destination in mind, even though it could kill me.
I love my oldest sister enough to drive from Texas to California during dead week of my sophomore year despite her not caring enough to call except for when she wants something.
I love my oldest sister’s dog enough to take her in with little help, even though she cried for the first three weeks of classes when I wasn’t home and ripped up my belongings.
I love my middle older sister enough that I’ve dropped everything for her in a minute and destroyed my mental health only to beg for three years before she visited me in Norman. I live less than three hours away.
I love my dad enough to tell him about how horrible his relationship was with my stepmom and that he should leave. I told him how she was planning on using him for money and risked him disowning me because no one else would. He didn’t react when I told him I will graduate in May with a self-designed major and two minors. He watched me struggle and fight throughout my college career, and he didn’t even say he was proud. He treated it like a mundane fact, despite him talking about how proud he was that my sister graduated with her associate degree last year and putting so much academic pressure on me.
I crave my dad’s affection, but it only feeds my self-doubt.
I think the reason why I love it—the ruin, the destruction—is because it’s all I’ve ever known. It’s probably all I will ever know given my self-destructive streak that, no matter how hard I try, I can never seem to fix.
It’s like the fog outside. It lingers and seeps into your hair until there’s no more room for it to fit. It leaves your hair full of remorse and poofs it up with regret until it’s unrecognizable.