I’m waiting for the universe to decide when I’ve endured enough heartbreak. Or maybe I’m waiting for my own personal breaking point, for the bottom to finally fall out of my mind. One way or the other, I feel it’s just around the corner. We are on the cusp of something, my unicorn of a husband told me last night. I think he may genuinely believe that our suffering will be rewarded in this lifetime, in this fucked up cruel world that has not given me a single break in decades. I would be forced to say that I vehemently disagree.
Where have I been to? Where am I going? My apartment walls once held so much promise but today they fold in upon me and I cannot draw a breath. My fingers trace the scars of my past, gnarly and authentic lines I once carved in my own skin. Since then I’ve achieved a dull stasis, wrapped my pain like a chrysalis that sheds layers as it incubates my slow decline. I want to roll the dice again, start anew with a heftier character. And it will strike like lightening, burst forth with new life. I’m hungry for the cure.
Femara is not giving me an easy ride right now. I sat with my psychotherapist this morning and cryptically made reference to the precise instant I was derailed, oh, the drama of it, a psychotic depression and the long years of recovery. Now I lay on my back boiling and taste salt from the split in my lip–and my babies are maybe angels and I can’t process the laughter from their ghosts. CD 7, last dose tonight. Dear sweet God, if you’re out there, please let my soul find rest.
My post-RE-consult euphoria left like a thief in the night. I awaken with fat tears coming from my dark eyes, dribbling a path towards my pillows. I’ve had this dream before: me, a prodigal daughter returning to Boston, calling old friends but no one wants to see me. I remember all of their phone numbers but we haven’t spoken for years. Behind my closed eyes, I see my smartphone screen registering gibberish as I try to reach out after years of absence.
I think it was the photo I saw on Facebook last night, my childhood friends reunited and posing on the beach with their gleaming-eyed children. That sense of missing out on the life that was promised me. I want to be part of that so badly that it must have drilled itself into my subconscious, leaving a path for the loneliness to come streaming out in the images and sounds that echo through my dreams.
I haven’t really spoken to anyone since I admitted to my friend that sometimes I hear voices. She hung up on me. This isn’t my fault! I want to scream. It’s like having diabetes or high blood pressure, I need to take meds. But it isn’t, not really. Once you take a breath, spit out a word that starts with “schizo-“…I guess after that, you can never go home again.
I wonder if Molly were in my arms, her black hair shining blue in the sun the way mine once did, my freckles darkening on her pudgy cheeks–I wonder if I’d be redeemed.
I heard from a couple girls when I brazenly announced my tfmr on the Facebook. We grew up good Democrats, and they praised me for sharing my story in support of Planned Parenthood. But they didn’t say they were sorry. That they thought I may be hurting to lose a sick child. Everything was strictly political and I kept my chin from trembling but in my gut the anger grew into the fierce bitterness that makes it so hard to have friends today. How dare they, with their perfect little lives? Fuck the past, fuck Massachusetts. I carried on with my head held high, tossing my long hair insouciantly with middle finger extended to the cloudy grey skies.
Today I am broken. No one is gonna fuck with me again.
…and when I do go out, I hide in plain sight.
Days stretch out ahead of me like highways, interminable weeks, all the years of solitude. I sulk on damp streets, safe behind dark plastic lenses. I keep my hair tucked into my shirt. There was a time when I forced my grief on the world, made them see me wrapped in the rage of all things lost–these days I opt to remain transparent, nothing save a ghost of a girl in the wind.
I am sick with missing my babies. I tell no one about the patterns only I can sense. A leaf twitches and signals a man to round the corner. He makes a secret sign and a red car proceeds down the road. They’ll hurt you bad, whispers an unfamiliar voice. And it all fits together like a puzzle and I know that when I get this way it means things are not going well. I frighten my friends. And I don’t know anyone like me.