I’m Sorry for Being a Diaper with Wings

I am a diaper with wings who does not need to be an adult. I am sorry that I led you to ponder my wording. It is a grievance of mine that I do not know how to secure them the correct way; the sticky side does not stick where I would like and, instead, it sticks onto itself.

I get out of breath just thinking about my to-do list, the people I will meet, and the fact that I am perpetually dehydrated. In a house of others, too many are the trips to the toilet because I do not drink enough water. The wings do not do what it says on the tin.

I was vexed when I had to go to the dentist all by myself. My family is spread across the globe and, for some of them, I will not know when they have died or ever experience their warmth again. I will not even have the opportunity to scratch underneath their armpit on that spot between the hairs for comfort or suck my thumb like my cousin used to do when she was young.

Life is hard, and you are a liar if you do not think it is right to suck your thumb and dangle your feet, wishing your legs were shorter on the dentist chair so that you would not have any consequences for your decision not to brush. There is nothing that says adults cannot have other adults accompany them on these compulsory trips to find out if a tooth is rotten; they have mirrors at the dentist and you can see Narnia.

If I have a hospital appointment, it is imperative that this appointment is done in the comfort of my home so that I can find the entrance. I was discombobulated by these mandatory procedures and finding my way via street view on my phone when the building had three separate entrances.

It mattered that my Bluetooth failed. It mattered that self-explanatory directions played out loud when I was right outside the correct entrance. It mattered if I went to level E when I should have been on level C. I cannot ask the receptionist who is staring at me, seeking to capture my brown eyes and the booger sticking out of my nose (that didn't happen). I thought I removed it, but then I wondered if there were hairs sticking out (I hope this doesn't happen).

Sorry about this; I do not know how to read signs when my anxiety is making my prescriptions weaker, weaker, weaker before my next eye test. I do not know how to talk to people about my issues.

On the road where the main turn-offs are wide, where cars are coming from all three directions, I do not look three ways, even though two of those ways are behind me. It is too many head turns and the noise is too jarring. What if I looked the wrong way? I was overstimulated. The cars were bigger, the faces were sharper, and my life was at stake. I looked straight and that was it.

If you happened to be friends with the man who was spewing vituperation, please send him my sincerest apologies; I got tired before I got to the last head turn. I know he must have described me as a lady with two left feet, a lady with no sense of sight, and a lady with the spatial awareness of a stunned, four-eyed moth. In my opinion, I did not like the look of cars on the road and angry people, especially when I am the problem.

The habit of not drinking enough water is still with me to this day. My vision was blurred from low glucose and excessive caffeine, yet I felt no embarrassment holding onto the shelves. I could see Jaffa cakes, Oreos, and more Oreos. That I was not at home and no one was coming to save me, the stickiness on my hands reminded me.

I should have had a banana after climbing that hill before I came to Asda, but then I needed to go to Asda to get the banana. This is the reason why I did not visit you when you said I should, years ago back in high school when I was still sucking my thumb. You will always be my favorite teacher, even if I do not remember your name, Mrs...

Sorry about that.