I’m not brave, not on days like today when the skies send water sluicing down my dirty windows and the fury inside me sets the panic racing in my heart. I try to take care of myself: clean my teeth meticulously, eat three times a day, take my medication and supplements, wander the streets until I am exhausted and can sleep. My life is chopped up into month-long cycles that begin and end with a bleed.
It’s been this way since Molly died. Juggling pregnancy loss, infertility, and mental illness is no easy feat for a hysterical child-woman such as myself. I always told myself that after I had a baby (for I was once somewhat optimistic), I would get back on my therapeutic medication doses and be my old self again. I mean, I went years and years without having any sort of episode and had a life full of loving people to pull me through my short-lived bouts of anxiety, or infrequent mild hypomanias and depressions. Two years since losing her and with the help of a psychiatrist/ obstetrician and I’m practically back to the same medications I was on during this golden age. But this time it’s not working. Somehow I’ve ended up fucked.
It’s the grief, I know it is. This burden crushing down on my shoulders as I find solace in the rhythm of my feet on pavement and feel the rain on my face. I hear her name on the wind, Molly, Molly, Molly, and not even for a single second can I ever forget.