a good container

So much pressure in the head and throat. Weight pounding in, feels skull crushing in density. My throat nearly closed, head full of congestion. How I'm still breathing, I don't know. What passes for air here is thick to me, thick in my lungs, weighting me down. Breathing feels difficult, all of it feels painful. A stabbing in my throat, somehow stabbing and aching at once. My chest feels full of fluid as though waterlogged. Submerged for too long. The opposite of mummification, whatever that is. Too soaked, too wet, the skin whitening from being in water too long. Dead skin ready to be sloughed off. Sitting up, getting up, moving might help. Doesn't help me breathe, but helps change perspective once I water my eyes enough to be able to blink.

I had been under arrest. Not arrest exactly, but something very like it. I remember being on the street and having documents or information, something that needed protecting. I had a few plastic bags I'd picked up along the way, was doing what I could to be careful, but accidents happen. Rain comes, encounters with other people. Things get dropped or stolen, lost. My ancient plastic bags wouldn't keep the elements out. Something to do about mud or rain or piss, maybe all three together at once. Whatever this is, I'm trying to keep it safe and suddenly had the brilliant idea to go to the convenience store, the gas station. Everything I needed was there. I could buy one of those metal tins they sell mints and hard candies in. I don't know if the gas station will have exactly what I'm looking for, but I've even seen them selling gum in hard plastic containers. Any of that would work. I just need a container, something protective to shield this precious cargo from the elements, from getting dropped or lost, stolen. I want to keep it safe.

I spent a long time rifling through the rows of products crammed into the shelves. They had the metal tins I wanted, but now it was a matter of finding one I liked. The contents didn't matter much too me, what was important was the image on the outside of the tin. I was going to have to look at this design for a long time, I wanted to be able to enjoy it. Chamomile is not the move. Chamomile does nothing for me, I don't find it soothing or relaxing or find truth in any of the sedative claims I've heard people make about the flower. It might as well be boiled sock water. That's what I smell and taste, stinky socks in hot water that's cooled. Looking at the yellow flowers brings me no joy. 

I want something I'm going to look at and enjoy. Elderberry, frambois. Maybe that's too niche? Elderberry, elderberry, they must have at least one elderberry, maybe in the back? I rummaged through all the tins for long enough that I drew the attention of the automated cameras in the ceiling, many of them stayed trained on me for doing something unusual, outside of the predictable patterns. I was in one place for longer than expected, doing what? Why look at every tin? Why touch and shake every item? Everyone affiliated with the store, human and automated was convinced that I was there to steal merchandise and minimize corporate profit. That's all anyone cares about. Not my health or my dreams, not my point of view. They could just ask me what I'm doing instead of making assumptions, but it's too difficult to sit with the discomfort of being mistaken, being wrong. Confusion is a bad look to them. There is only being right and everyone else being wrong. 

I don't care what you think I'm doing or why. It has no impact on me until it does. If I have to tolerate a chamomile tin, maybe I can compensate my disappointment with a little supplementary something like a sandwich or throat lozenges— soothe my own hungers and pain. Like most people with no money, those of us who survive on others' generosity, I had a handful of coins to pay with that other people saw as a problem. Register lines are always quite long here, people get easily aggravated when things don't go they way they anticipate, when they feel slowed down or obstructed. Nobody wants to deal with someone off the street trying to pay with handfuls of pennies.

It's still money isn't it? I'd placed my items on the counter— the tin that wasn't the tin I really wanted, half a sandwich wrapped in plastic, and a few other things then dumped all the coins I had on the counter. The salesperson at the register hated me for it and was quite vocal in their disapproval. If they had to count all this dirty money, they were going to do it as slowly as possible throwing me to the lions of frustration built up by everyone else in line behind me. She was going to let them tear me apart. City dwellers will stand in line for lots of things, it's part of life here— fresh bread from the bakery, bowls of hot soup, anything good, but slowing down the machinery? It's not well tolerated. I could try to explain it as a tactic, but no one's trying to hear that. They don't care about me and my situation, they care about themselves. That makes sense, I get it, but I won't be the victim of your sacrifice.

Without even counting the money she decided I didn't have enough. She wasn't going to help me out either. There is no negotiation, no barter here. I'm certain that I do have enough, but they just didn't want to count the money. It was another one of those "your money's no good here" or "we don't serve your kind" situations. What's so different about me? How do I offend? Let me count the ways. I get it. I know I'm annoying to other people. I know it with everything in my being. They want me to be regular, they want me to keep my mouth shut. I can't though. I just can't. It's simply not possible. I wouldn't be able to do the things everyone does if I tried— and I did try, for lifetimes— I'm just not made that way. It's not in my wiring, my mechanics. I'm a different kind of animal, for a future time that's not here yet. I carry the mutation and it expresses whenever it does, it's not up to me. 

Not only were they not going to count my coins or recognize my money they were also going to lock me up again for being so weird and different. They feared for their safety. Always saying that, they feared for their safety. They need monsters and villains outside of themselves because they can't bear to look at their own cruelty, their own suffering. They always find others to pay the price for their greed and hatred. 

I know I had more than enough to purchase the items I'd placed on the counter, but the ire of the crowd behind me was rising. In fact they seemed kind of giddy to exert their collective power, calling a manager or at the cops or whatever. Listen, what about if you take these items out and just give me the tin. I know there's more than enough for the tin. I just want the tin. Just sell me the tin and I'll go. But it was too late. They were not going to count the money or return it, they'd keep everything, sell me nothing and incarcerate me. Yes, I am being detained, and no, they're not going to tell me what the charges are.

That really fucked up my day.

I'm probably covered in bruises from the interaction. Sometimes it takes them awhile to appear, but I can feel it happening beneath the surface. No arnica either. They've got nothing on me, I've done nothing wrong. They're just making life harder because they can. Weaponizing bureaucracy, all the surface machinery of state violence at their disposal. I was taken away, had to be processed, had no access to representation, they took away my mask. Took off my shoes and made me walk barefoot. Humiliation is always a big part of this, but I've been through it enough now to be able to hold my rage and go through the motions. They've got me here for a few hours, maybe into the night, maybe through to tomorrow, but they can't keep me. There were no charges, I've done nothing wrong. It could kill me going through this process actually, it really could. In this body, in this state. Many have died in custody before, I wouldn't be the first. 

I don't even bother with why me, why is this happening. Doesn't matter really, it is happening, so how best to respond? How can I be gentle with myself, care for myself in this situation? What can I do to make this nonsense go more smoothly and get out in one piece as quickly as possible? I tried to be as civil as possible because I've seen what they do. I spoke when spoken to, kept my mouth mostly shut and was released again within only a few hours. 

I couldn't find my things. I came in wearing shoes. I had a few possessions they assured me were in a plastic bag along with my shoes somewhere on the rotating carousel out front. Much like a baggage claim conveyor belt, I watched all the shoes go around and around many times never seeing my own. It's going to be hard to walk around for long with no shoes. There was no one to complain or protest to, and I was getting fed up with the politeness, it was difficult to contain my rage at the violence and indignity. Seeing my hysterical mother at the gate did nothing to calm or soothe me.

If I have feelings of my own, they always have to take second place to the ups and downs of my relatives with defined emotional centers. They're all defined. My whole life has been like that. They let me carry all the emotion for them. None of its mine, it's never been mine. It passes right through me, but I feel it. Their waves are palpable to me, they knock me to the ground, take me out, but they've never managed to see themselves in it, only me. I feel what they feel and I amplify it, playing it back. They get angry or sad or feel guilty or frightened and it's always my fault, it's always me doing something wrong according the them, me being narcissistic or selfish or mean or horrible in some way. If that's what you need, then fine, have it your way.

As soon as I saw her, her hysteria was coursing through me as if it were my own. Raging, crying, full of fear and anxiety. Wtf is this? This nothing to do with you. I'm the one living this life. I'm the one that got locked up, I'm the one who suffers all these violences. You've got no idea what this life is like for me, how is it that you get to cry and wail and put on such theatrics? You're upset about what happened to me? It's got fuckall to do with you. Why are you even here? I believe I yelled at her which I regret doing. I didn't ask her to come, but she wanted to play the part of concerned, supportive parent. Show her outrage. I'm sure there's a letter to the editor in all this somewhere, it's just a matter of time. 

I was already depleted from the whole situation, I couldn't find my shoes and now I have to deal with her drama on top of it? If I yelled at her, it follows that she will cry. She will cry for everything done and not done, cry for herself and the world, for being a bad mother, for never being there for us kids. Remorse, regret, lifetimes of disappointment. I'm so tired of it. It's a boring game. Her tears are my cue to step in and console her, be all there there. I won't do it. I won't. Call me callous, any other name in the book. She can cry all she wants. I hate this so much. It feels so manipulative, so rote. It's like a formula that happens over and over forever: something happens to me, she gets upset about it, does what she thinks she should do to show up or support and instead of being met with gratitude and welcome, she meets frustration, disappointment, hostility which makes her upset and she cries. Tears come so easily to some people, and work like magic on others, they'll do anything to stop the tears. Not me. I welcome tears. Crying is good for you. There's so much to cry about. Enjoy it. I guess there's an expectation that when tears come someone will sidle up with tissues and gentle words, consoling, embracing. Not me. Not at all.  

She wanted to be told she was a good mother, she wanted me to miss her and be pleased to see her, to feel supported and loved I guess. That's not what's happening here, if that's upsetting then it is. I yelled at her because she took my shoes. Not only did she take my shoes, she put them in the washing machine. She was pantomiming care, doing the things she knew other mothers would do sometimes— laundry. She put my sneakers in the washing machine because they were filthy, they should be in the dryer now, they'll be ready any minute. I screamed because I had screaming in me that had to get out. How many times can I feel violated in one day? I didn't console her or wipe her tears, but I did try to be clear about my own responses, why I was reacting the way I was.

I don't put my shoes in washing machines and driers. I just don't. And you did this thing without asking me. I understand that you thought you were being helpful, but actually you were violating my agency and autonomy. You should have asked permission first. You don't just get to do things that impact my life without my input. Nothing for us without us. Haven't you heard that before? No one gets to decide what's best for someone else. We decide what we want and need. We are our own authorities. 

She'd calmed down the crying enough that I thought she could hear what I was saying. Who knows what she'll take in or even remember in a few hours, minutes. That's what these waves are like, none of it's real or true in the moment— full of joy, full of sorrow, full of rage, it's always fluctuating. I've tried to tell my child to sleep on it, don't make decisions in the middle of a wave, but they've got as much scorn for me as I have for my own mother. Tomorrow never happens, it's always the same fucking day.