I flop the spoon around in my Special K and glare down at the Rediscover Yourself retreat pamphlet she shoved in my face last night. The brochure is covered in pictures of women of all ages participating in various outdoor activities, smiling their faces off. No one is that happy. Would it kill a marketing team to put a pensive person on a pamphlet?

I sit with my butt on the very edge of a plastic subway seat, back ramrod straight, suitcase tucked between my legs, en route to JFK. I’m staring at a partially defaced ad for one of my mom’s favorite plays, Mamma Mia!, and mentally critiquing the irritatingly upbeat-looking actors.

Mom’s “new normal” is blowing me off. It’s why I spent the last five days reminding her about the doctor’s appointment we went to yesterday. The woman’s always, always headed to meet with her dancers. She’s tirelessly rehearsing for the opening of a new musical she’s choreographing called Jean’s Not Green.

It’s great. I’m happy for her.

But also, I’m not. Because I have to do things like bring myself to the airport via subway for a retreat I didn’t sign up for.

A sigh escapes my lips.

I sigh too much probably. I know Mom doesn’t like it.

White Chapel roars through my AirPods as the plane takes off. Metal works like that suction-tube straw thing the dentist sticks in your mouth to funnel out the drool when they’re working on your teeth. You stick it in your ears, and it drains out the rage.

I managed to score a window seat for this flight, but I forgot to pack a book. I’ve been devouring poetry books these last couple of months because melodramatic metaphors about life have proven a worthy injury distraction.

Mom doesn’t like poetry. Too dramatic. Poetry and I have that in common.

I’ve always been dramatic. I used to refuse food when I was upset as a child. I had an infamous imaginary friend from the age of one to five. I went through a phase where I refused to wear anything but white sneakers outside of dance, and I’d cry hysterically when they weren’t immaculate. I was weird. But I wasn’t always mad at everything like I am now. The day everything fell apart three months ago, I tripped into this anger ditch, and I can’t seem to find my way out. I’m already pretty unlikable. I need to be alone too often. I’m too quiet. I’m too rigid. I like to be too early. And now I’ve got this hating-everything-thing happening. I hate it.