◊

I need to try harder? I need to try something different? Seriously, fuck off.

◊

The yoga master I worked with for two years, she told me that my grief was held in my hips—or some such new age nonsense. She had me twisting my body in fucked up positions. I hung upside down from ropes. I pulled muscles. I cried every night. I lost seventy pounds. My body was lean and supple. A lot of women fucked me. I still felt fat. I still felt unattractive. I still wanted to die.

One afternoon, she twisted me the wrong way and I erupted in anger. It must have come from my hips, you stupid fucking whore. She asked me to never return.

◊

The Peruvian Shaman told me he could unloosen my ghosts. He thought his drum had some kind of powers. He had the intellect of an adolescent who thought his comic book collection was holy. It didn’t work. He pounded his drum and chanted. I cried. I laughed. I got angry. I curled in a tiny ball. I fell asleep. Afterwards, he asked me what I thought. I told him. He told me to be patient. I tried. It was ridiculous. He ripped me off. I hope someone force feeds him his drum until he chokes.

◊

The Homeopathic doctor said it was my diet. He told me I was too fat. I know. I know. I know. He sold me hundreds of dollars in supplements. I took them all. I followed his diet. I lost sixty pounds. My skin got shiny. My body was supple and lean and soft. A lot of women fucked me—still fat, till unattractive. Fuck it.

◊

The acupuncturist told me that my main energy channels were blocked—something about my posture. She jabbed her needles between my toes. She stuck them in the crown of my skull. It made me tired. I fell asleep. I woke up aching and nauseous.

She made me herbal teas that tasted like muddy water. I threw up and convulsed with sickness. Patience, she told me, I had to be patient. I took a hundred dollar nap every week until I was broke. She said she was sorry. The obstruction was too old.

◊

The Zen Master carried a bamboo rod around the meditation hall. He smacked us on each shoulder. He whipped us. To keep us awake, to keep us focused—meditation is not sleeping.

I panicked whenever he hit me. He reminded me of my father. I sweat a puddle on the floor. He told me I was not suited for his training. I really should take medication. Buddhism wasn’t a cure.

◊

There was the hypnotists, the martial artists, the gurus, and the witches—the group therapy, the individual sessions, the pamphlets, the books, the books, the books, and the fucking medication, of course.

I took Prozac. It made me a zombie. Zoloft made me cum a little bit longer. Effexor made me vomit. Welbutrin made me a hyper fast talker. Paxil made me feel like I was being stabbed in the stomach. Etc. etc. and on and on–I’ve tried their drugs. I’ve taken them all for nothing.

◊

I hate myself. I’m unattractive. I want to die. I’m stupid. I deserve to be tortured. I know it.

◊

My anger bursts out. My rage is erupting. I’m exploding. I don’t want to be hurtful. I can’t help it. I am really very sorry.

But saying I don’t try is insulting and just fucking false. How dare you. I hate you for that. God damn you all. Seriously, fuck off.

◊