A Poor Player

          Daylight from the bedroom windows wakes me up at 6:00.
          My phone is not on my night stand.
          The lights are on, and the dogs wander the downstairs freely, not in their crates.
          I make coffee but it is too weak.
          And I remember what I did last night.
          Even my silence is not quiet enough for my past, and I see the same faces that my life grew away from, like a houseplant craning up out of a dark corner.
          Some of them are kind, and I wonder whether it is the kindness of good fortune—a happy childhood and a solid career—or the mercy that comes from suffering, from true character.
          I refused their civilities, insisting on love. Knowing it would never get better for me, I made it much worse. 
          I am terrified of the commonplace.
          I am Frances Farmer on This Is Your Life, her hair swept back into a brutal bun, a cravat like a silk noose, her eyes hollow and black, crawling back from the delicious excesses and articulate rages—a mannequin in a prim wool suit, her anger itching just below the neckline.
          I am still here. And look, I'm just fine.
          I have too many feelings.
          It is a diagnosis. It is not a respectable status.
          I have outlived my personality, and like an old T-shirt it hugs my belly, outlining my monstrosity. 
          I am a joke, told at a dinner party.