​

 

The table’s always set. No one’s invited.

I’m not planning a party. I’m planning for the thoughts.

Because I don’t have the luxury of believing my own brain.

My self-awareness will kill me.

My heart jumps.
My breath miscalculates.
I tell myself it’s nothing. My chest disagrees.

 

I name it. I breathe like they taught me. The room nods, but my chest stays locked. Nothing changes but the clock.

Can’t trust my own thoughts.

I feel huge things—things that aren’t even real. They don’t exist, but I feel them.

It’s unfortunate.

 

So I go through my thoughts like files:
“You’re feeling this way because you had esketamine this morning.”
“You aren’t dying. It’s the chemicals.”

 

What do you do when you can’t trust your thoughts?

You monitor them. All the time. Because if you don’t, they’ll take over. And you can’t afford that.

 

Sometimes I regulate by naming five things in the room that are real.

We’ve done that together for years.

Five things I can see. Five things I can touch.

My foot on the floor. My fingers on the coffee mug.

The magnet on the fridge. The lip of the table. My dog.

My dog likes me.

It helps.

For a minute.

But I try. That’s the thing. I do touch it. I do name it. I’m still here.

 

There is desperation that sits like tar in my veins. It doesn’t want to move. My blood tries to push it back and forth. My body temperature keeps it warm and heavy.

That’s why I’m still standing.

The tar anchors me. Not up, not down. Just here.

 

The water bill came.
It was $38 more than usual.
I thought: “We’ll lose the house.”
That’s where the spiral starts.
Not with facts. With timing.

Do you have late payments? No.

Did you stay in the small house to keep it manageable? Yes.

All of that is true.

What if there’s an accident? Medical bills—we lose the house.

What if someone loses a job? We lose the house.

 

Okay Mariel, press harder.

 

I know those thoughts aren’t rational. They don’t deserve space.

But there’s always a plate set for them at the table.

While you’re thinking about the deviled egg on your plate, I’m staring at mine wondering:

Do my kids get enough protein? Enough exercise?

The questions pile fast and hard, and then, without warning—
 

“Should I just kill myself?”

No.

 

When I put that dick bag’s table setting away, I think—they are gone. But they come back.

With settings they’ve chipped themselves. Still dirty. Still warm.

Sometimes they sneak in more settings. More people to feed.

Even if they’re grimy. Crusty.

But they’re cobalt blue. That’s a pretty color. So, it’s fine.

 

Some days I have the energy to decorate the room. I ask them to take their settings away.

They do.

And for a while, the table is pretty.

Then they knock again, a day, a week, a month later—with the same unwashed cobalt plate.

And I let them in.

Because I’m from Iowa. You set the table, even for the thoughts that want you gone.

 

Mariel, you’re spiraling.

You’re chemically imbalanced.

Your body is lying to your mind.

You are not being chased by a bear.

I don’t trust my brain. It doesn’t tell the truth.

But I know it doesn’t tell the truth.

I’m self-aware.

And self-awareness is part of my brain.

So, my brain is attacking and helping me at the same time?

That's how they earn the invitation.

​

I let the thoughts sit down with me.

They’re uninvited. They track mud across the rug my mother gave me—the one she didn’t want anymore. I didn’t want it either—but I took it. Like everything else.

I offer them lemonade.

 

It’s worse at night.

The thoughts I can’t trust come louder.

Everything I think at night is a lie. I know that. I still have to think them.

 

I sit with my heart in my throat a lot.

It doesn’t care what I want.

But it’s still beating.
And the table’s still set.
 

One of them just asked for salt.

I set another plate.