A story:
Rewind and I can feel myself trying to control almost every minute of my life.
I would turn levers here and mute myself there. I put emotional experiences in all the inner parking lots to feel later when I had time (which was never because we make time, you know this and I know this). I knew when emotions began to well and the spot where the well runneth over, right at the apex of my throat and most times, I would push them back down.
I was 23. I lived in an apartment with a purple living room and my own bathroom was through a doorway to the left. I cannot remember if I was clothed or naked more in that tub as I would often veer left upon returning home from a job I chameleon-ed my way through in the heart of Hollywood and even with my shoes on, I would take the step up and over the side to sit in the tub. Alone. And cry.
For at least 42 minutes.
I never turned on the water because like waves, the tears would wash over me. Heavy and harsh at first. And as the well began to dry…
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