I don’t think I understand self-care. 

It’s taken me until college, sitting on the linoleum floor below the sink, in front of the water pipes, to start patching myself up. I’ve got a box full of bandaids and alcohol wipes, and I haven’t wanted to use them until now. I take showers so hot that I feel dizzy when I step out. Then, I slather Neosporin over the cuts and the scrapes. My ankles are covered in bandaids, one on top of my foot, another around my thumb. There’s bruises and red rashes that I didn’t know were there. My hands shake, but I sterilize it all while there’s yelling out in the hallway. People sound like they’re having fun, but it makes me think I’m not cut out for this sort of thing. 

I take vitamins every morning. I never forget to take my pills. I drink water. I never drank water daily until I got to college, and now, the little refrigerator with the rainbow magnets on it is full of mini bottles, filled and refilled by the rusty fountain near the bathroom. My skin is clear, but my mind isn’t. 

See, I thought self-care was supposed to make you happier. 

I open the window to let fresh air in when I leave for class; I always put the cactus in front of it. But even still, I have to prick my finger to see how sharp it really is. I forget sometimes. 

I sleep enough, and I sleep well, but there’s that time before and after I’m asleep that I lay staring at the ceiling. My thoughts run so fast that my eyes hurt behind closed eyelids. Before and after I fall asleep, I’m always awfully aware of how alone I am in my bed full of pillows and layers of blankets. 

I go to the library, but I haven’t read a book in ages. The library is practically devoid of any book I used to like, fiction and interesting, but there’s an emptiness there that I like to lean into, in between the shelves covered in dust and books I haven’t heard of. It’s all academic things, books that make you feel smarter but ignorant at the same time when you crack them open. I like to open them to the first page, but I never read it. It always feels like I’m looking for a specific thing, but I don’t know what it is. I like to pretend that there’s a sign hiding in the titles, and I try to find it. It’s never there. 

I don’t think I understand what self-care is supposed to mean.