POETRY/PROSE.
FORGET ME (NOT)
THE NEW SCHOOL | MAY 2024
I just want to forget myself.
Pins and needles. No, sharper. Prickling, stinging, burning. Fourth of July sparklers crackling under the skin. Little klaxons of inflammation. Neuro-transmission. Short circuits. Long suffering.
Must not overheat. Or become too cold. Or exert too much energy. See you saunas. So long snow angels. Bye bye basketball. I bade you farewell long ago. (I haven’t stopped missing you.)
I just want to forget myself.
Itch and scratch and scratch and scratch and— no! don’t. But why not? Why bother? Bothered either way. Dry and tight. Red and flaky. Rough and bumpy. Someone save me. Ha ha. If there’s no rhyme or reason, I might as well rhyme.
I just want to forget myself.
So I’ll stick to the dozen or so foods that my skin will let slide. Eating out is out of the question. I’ll carry around hypoallergenic soap so my hands won’t bubble up in blisters. I’ll donate my favorite clothes because they contain polyester. I’ll avoid skin-to-skin contact, even with my partner. (Have you tried having sex with all your clothes on?)
I just want to forget myself.
My mind may be rich but if health is wealth I’m in the poorhouse. Or the jailhouse. Every biochemical riot a painful reminder that my body is a prison of defective cells.
I just want to forget myself.
So I’ll smear on creams and choke down pills and plunge syringes into my thigh. When that doesn’t work I’ll try holistic needles. I’ll swallow supplements and coat myself with poultices. I’ll do Ayurveda. Homeopathy. Naturopathy. Functional medicine. Dry fasting. Immunotherapy. TCM. TMS. NAET. Isn’t there a single ism out there for me?
I just want to forget myself.
I’ll meditate and breathe and freedom tap to get what’s “all in my head” out. Out. OUT. Out of luck. Out of it. Desperate. I’d infect myself with worms if that’s what it took. Right, I’ve already done that. What’s next, fecal enemas? Some people swear by it.
I just want to forget myself.
My constant coerced self-awareness is not consonant with my spirit. I want to run marathons and walk on hot coals and snow-shoe through a blizzard. Or at least be able to jog to the train and not swell up in pain. I want to fine dine, drink fine wine and eat histamine-rich delicacies for seven straight courses. Or at least enjoy takeout and a beer and have my skin stay clear. I want to be someone I’m proud of. Or at least someone I can bear.
I just want to forget myself.
So I can be more present, more reliable, more consistent. I wonder how many people mistake my disorder for disinterest. (It’s not that I don’t want to see you. I just don’t want you to see me.)
I just want to forget myself.
So the world doesn’t forget about me. But how do I engage when so many of its pleasures bring me pain? Caffeine and alcohol. Dinner and dessert. Pet dander and laundered bed sheets. Pollen and pollution. Physical activity and temperature extremes. This condition is extreme.
I just want to forget myself.
And take this forgetting for granted. Like the people in restaurant windows and bars and clubs and work and school and everywhere. And everyone has problems, yes, of course they do. But there is something unique about a problem you can see. It’s why I have trouble looking people in the eye, why I’m afraid to face a mirror unless the light is dim.
I just want to forget myself.
Like I used to when I was a kid. I would snack and play without a care. Then one day in the shower my arms started to flare. The rashes spread; I got shot in the ass with cortisone at some urgent care. After that the hives appeared. Now all I do is care. For myself. About myself. By myself. Involuntary self — ish — ness.
I just want to forget myself.
So I can focus on something else, anything else. The things I love. The love I can’t feel through the lesions and wheals, my crust of self-hatred. It’s hard to embrace life when you’re trapped in a brace.
I just want to forget myself.
I’ve spent thousands of hours and dollars trying and failing. I fantasize about all the ways I could have filled my time if I didn’t have to worry about this; what could have taken the place of thoughts that cloud and crowd out everything else.
I just want to forget myself.
At least for long enough stretches to make it through whatever this is. Lately I’ve been thinking about life as something I’m waiting to get to the end of, like an overlong movie. Maybe I’ll shoot it some day.