The Party

It's the invitation I feel obligated to accept even though I don't know the host. It's the sweater that grandma knitted for me, even though it's itchy and not my colour.

It's the million errant thoughts that go through my mind every time I step outside my door. It's the receipt I won't throw away because I know when I do the item will need to be replaced.

It's the hundred different ways I can misinterpret a word. It's the thousand different scenarios I play in my head just so I'm ready for any eventuality.

It's what could possibly go wrong when the other person doesn't show up. Car wreck, heart attack, mugger, broken bones, any situation in which they are injured and dying.

It's the tight chest, the buzz in my head, the feeling of floating beside myself and being completely trapped in my mind's basement. It's the drop of my heart, the whooshing of my blood in my ears, the lump of my stomach in my throat.

It's the party that I didn't know I was throwing. The uninvited guests that bring their family members. The moment I realize I'm not in control here.

I did not make this guest list. I did not buy these streamers. I did not decorate this room. I did not prepare this food. I did not invite any of these people.

I isolate myself in a quiet corner, hoping they will leave soon. But they don't. They unpack their bags, they raid my fridge, they go through my belongings.

They own me. I am not my own. They define who I am, who I talk to, how I perceive myself, how I live. They make their thoughts my thoughts, their clothes my clothes, their masks my masks.

I have shackles around my ankles and wrists. I have a harness and a leash. I am the puppet and they are my manipulator. They own me.

This silky, masterful web is comfortable. It caresses me and sings me to sleep. It rocks me securely in its arms. It lulls me into blissful oblivion.

It's the invitation I accept because it's the only one I receive anymore.