I spent a long time in the shower today. Long enough for the
water to turn cold just as I was realizing that I hadn't really performed all of my usual shower tasks, or at least, the ones
I had planned for today.
It started off as
idle thought, enjoying the water infiltrating my wavy, unruly
hair. It degenerated from there. I was standing in the shower, my hair not completely wet,
almost crying, not sure how long I'd been there.
I no longer wanted to wash. I no longer wanted to be in the shower. I didn't even think about getting out, however, because
the outside felt worse. I just wanted to sit down on the glazed surface of the tub and
wait for somebody to find me there. Not just anybody, but somebody who'd understand the sudden shower induced nihilism that I seemed to have found. The
shower was its own little world, with its sickly yellow light and cheap
grey tile. I hated it, I loved it, I didn't care. I just didn't want to be there anymore, and I didn't want to be
responsible for removing myself from it either.
I stood there, wet, mouth turned down, tears mixing with water.
Brian Wilson is in my head,
schizophrenic and afraid of the shower, hiding in his bed. It is no real comparison, but the thought jolts me back into reality.
I don't want to admit I've slipped.
I did slip. I was a fucking loon in the shower,
freaking out full scale. I sucked it up and washed my hair and face. I used my backbrush and scrubbed everywhere. As I was readying to
shave my underarms, the water turned cold. My feet itched, they were red and swollen from standing so long. I quickly shaved and exited, and resumed pretending to feel normal.