he didn’t believe I stopped breathing

I don’t cry often, dear reader. Maybe the result of years and years of psychotropic drugs. I think however, it is more likely the years of habitual, compulsive numbing. But who knows.

I’m working on it though–crying more often. I’m tapping into the little bitch I am.

Because I don’t cry often, dear reader, when I do it’s for everything.

It’s quite dramatic, really. It’s not my usual lay-on-the-floor-and-be-emo way of dealing with things. It’s big, crocodile tears and a gaping hole in my chest. Honestly, and maybe shamefully, it feels good. I don’t realize how tightly I’m holding onto something until it’s spilling over–until I’m a thousand pounds lighter.

Last night, dear reader, I had myself a cry.

I was talking–just talking–with my parents about my life in Colorado. Somehow, perhaps by the hand of the devil himself, the conversation turned to an eye doctor that I don’t currently have–I need one, apparently and I better start looking. I started to talk about visual snow–a condition I’ve had all my life, and that continues to be a glowing gem in the crown of my physical fuckery.

Visual snow syndrome is truly ass. It’s an incredibly rare condition that causes pixel or static-like dots to veil the entire field of vision. It doesn’t obstruct vision entirely, dear reader, and this is why I’m not yet legally blind. It’s just a veil; a strange screen over everything I see. It makes life seem less real–or I imagine it does. I don’t remember my life before the dots.

The best part of visual snow, dear, sweet reader, is that nobody, and I truly do mean nobody, believes me. It’s a thing though, I promise. Like, I’ve done a ton of research. But doctors think I’m lying, or that I have “floaters”–a relatively common visual annoyance.

But it’s real. It is. I have a screen of static over my eyes, and I’m almost completely blind in the dark. I tell you this not to complain, dear reader, though it really does sound that way (sorry) ((I am a little bitch.))

I’m telling you because my father didn’t know I have visual snow–that I’ve had it all my life–until last night when I mentioned it casually. I explained.

He didn’t believe me, of course. Who would? He didn’t believe me, and suddenly I was eight years old and I couldn’t breathe.

I was eight years old and I knew I was going to die. I was gasping for breath for the third time that week, and I was insane. A problem. There was no reason. It didn’t make sense that an eight year old could just stop breathing. That this could come from panic.

He didn’t believe me, and suddenly I was 18 and had just lost 40 lbs in 4 months. I was trying to explain that i couldn’t eat. That my mind wouldn’t let me. But I was crazy for it. There was no reason. It didn’t make sense.

He didn’t believe me last night, and so I turned to him and said, “listen to what I’m saying. This is hard for me.”

He listened, dear reader. He apologized.

It only took 23 years.

I cried a lot, for all of this.

Thank you for listening, dear reader. I love you.

And I believe you.