Trigger warning: depression/suicide idealization My parents were going to take me out to a restaurant that year, but I came home not hungry. I think they thought my sixteenth birthday might work as a buffer of sorts for the suicidal idealizations, but depression is a motherfucker that knows no holidays. They took my siblings to Taco Bell instead. I woke up around three in the morning, singing in sweat, and all I could think about was my soft tacos in the fridge. I put them in the microwave for thirty seconds, then another twenty, then another ten, because Fuck, even microwaves can’t work right. I ate in bed in the dark, so I wouldn’t wake my sister. I didn’t think about much of anything as I lifted the tortilla to my mouth — meditation taught me that magic trick. Conveniently, it only seemed to work when I was eating alone with the lights off and not when I was, like, sobbing in the school bathroom, but alas. Progress. I felt the lettuce pool out the sides, between my fingers and there was a strange satisfaction in the mess of it. Here were my birthday tacos, splayed across a plastic plate like guts. And they were enough.
Sidney Wollmuth is currently attending the University of North Carolina Wilmington where she is double-majoring in English Literature and Creative Writing. Her writing has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing competition, Huffington Post, and No Contact Mag, among others. She was selected for the International Writing Program’s 2020 Summer Institute and works as the Editor-in-Chief of Atlantis Creative Magazine (atlantismagazine.org). You can find more of her work on her Instagram, @sidneysgallerywall.