Free I'm Sorry You Feel That Way by Diana Joseph Page B

got up at five in the morning to take him for long walks. I brushed his coat. I brushed his teeth. I ate my dinner with the puppy’s head on my lap. I gave him the cheese I was about to put in my mouth and the cheese I was about to lay across my son’s sandwich. In bed, I didn’t dare shift my position because it might disturb him. I surrendered the softest pillow to his cause, and when I spread a blanket across the most comfortable chair, no one but the puppy sat on it ever again.
    When I poured kibble—lamb meal and rice, good-quality protein, no artificial fillers—he refused to eat it unless I thumped him on his haunches and said encouraging things. There, there! Aren’t you a special man? and Who’s a pretty baby doggie boy? Why, you are! Yes, you! and Eat your kibbles, honey! Yes, eat your kibbles! Only when the puppy’s confidence was up and he had been adequately praised would he eat. He’d eat, and I’d applaud— Hooray! —and he’d crunch his kibble and growl while wagging his tail.
    The puppy didn’t like to be left alone. He didn’t like to be ignored. There were days when it seemed like he could never get enough attention to satisfy his need for attention. The puppy would get depressed. He’d sigh. He’d stare at the wall or at his feet in an impassive way. He’d burp like a human burps. Or he’d shred something. He’d take a book, a sweater, a twenty-dollar bill under the dining room table, and he’d shred it.
    I understood him completely.
     
     
     
     
     
    It happens when I feel nervous or worried or anxious or angry or stressed. My thoughts get taller and heavier, stronger. They grow arms and legs. They get up, stretch, take a walk around. My thoughts bully me. The boy was saying he had a stomachache, they say, and his bathroom habits seem different. It’s Crohn’s disease. He’s going to die.
    They say, You were moving kind of stiffly after that Godfather Trilogy marathon, and ever since you started drinking coffee again, you’ve been feeling trembly. Hate to tell ya this, but it’s gotta be Parkinson’s.
    They say, That kid seems unusually tired for an eight-year-old, and his short-term memory is lousy. It is definitely chronic fatigue.
    They say, That weird brown spot on your toe? Cancer. Of the big toe. You’re going to die.
    I keep this noise in my head a secret from others. During the hours of my life away from home—when I’m at work, the grocery store, the bank, a party—there is no noise. I look and act and appear normal. I go about my day and take care of the tasks at hand. I smile. I nod. I wait my turn. I say Yes, please! and Why, thank you! and You have a great day, too! No one would ever know it to look at me that as soon as I’m alone I am busy busy busy in the head.
    Chasing thoughts will eventually tucker a girl out. It’s exhausting, and it always leads to crying. Crying because the girl thinks she’s crazy, wacko, a real nutcase. Because she thinks she’s alone. Because she forgot to turn on the Crock-Pot, she forgot to turn down the thermostat, she forgot to turn off the oven, so it stayed at 350 degrees all night long. She’ll cry because it’ll occur to her that nobody has ever loved her, nobody ever did, and nobody ever will. She’ll cry because when she hugged her beloved, he tolerated her embrace, then unhooked her to ask is there any Swiss cheese in the fridge. All she wants is something that will let her hug it for as long as she wants. But she doesn’t have that. So she’ll cry. She’ll also drink too much, smoke too much, eat too much, weigh too much, want too much. She’ll worry that she’s boring. She’s stupid. She’s needy. Instead of hiding under the dining room table to shred twenties, she’ll spend them. Instead of shredding sweaters, she’ll buy them. Instead of sleeping, she’ll spend the night on WebMD.com , researching rare diseases she’s certain will strike the people she loves. She’ll cry because there’s a gray