The Failure Feels

Failure feels like a hard, cold hospital bed with those thin sheets that make you colder.

Failure feels like when your little sister calls you on the hospital pay phone, and tells you you are no longer going to be a part of her life.

Failure feels like sleeping for two days in the hospital after that call, and it costs $20,000.

That’s $10,000 per night for two bad dreams. In case anyone’s counting. But they’re not. It’s only the sallow faces of your little sister and her fiance, holding flowers and walking into the ward, not sure where not to look.

Failure is when you tell the art group therapy leader that you coudn’t draw clouds and flowers, because it was too much effort and you’re not interested in trying anymore.

Failure feels like giving up, but no one stops you when you get up to leave early.

Failure feels like buying into the American health care system. That it could help me, on any level, other than to bankrupt me. It’s a bullshit operation and I leave forgetting two different personal items.

Failure is when you text your little sister to tell her you’ve been released, and she doesn’t respond.

Failure is going back to work and not giving an appropriate amount of notice because two weeks is too long.

Failure is leaving two voicemails with the guy you were seeing and him never returning those calls.

Failure feels like considering all of this, and realizing this all took place over the span of two days. And it’s only January 2nd. Welcome to 2020.

Failure will start to feel familiar.