In Need of an Enema

My brain needs a fresh start, a clean gut, a little something something.

My brain needs a bath.

A wash, a soothing chamomile and lavender soak that drenches it in calming essences and grounding scents. Something to wash away the bits of news and blips of the phone screen. One that helps it relax into a meditative state of mind, no pun intended, that doesn’t worry about money or if I’m being a good enough mom or if my grief is big enough. I can picture my brain, gray in matter, floating in a tub surrounded by bubbles and flower petals, absorbing the soothing nature that that this wash is supposed to bring to it.

When I close my eyes and picture my brain, I see it scattered with sticky notes of different colors, chaotic scribble, maybe even hieroglyphics etched onto each one. There are hardly any smooth spaces available, which means the organ that keeps my body going is wrapped up in minutia and bullshit, but also, important and necessary evils of life. Work, doctors appts, raising a toddler, paying student loans, being up to date on the dumpster fire our world is, bla bla bla bla bla.

How cute it would be to pretend that Capitalism and corruption doesn’t exist? That having to work, even at a minimal degree, didn’t exist?

If you excel in one lane, you’re sure as hell going to slow down in the other, and on the Parkway, that doesn’t fly.

Sometimes I am mortally jealous of the people living in ignorant bliss. Sometimes I am extraordinarily envious of the people who have so much money and flow in their life that they don’t see anything other than themselves. Sometimes I wonder if my grief is big enough because I’m not crying every day.