Today was going to be a great day, I thought as I slipped out of bed. Although the hour was too late to call “appropriate”, I was going to make the best of time I had left. Finally, walking to my washroom, brushing my teeth, and taking a shower seemed to be accomplishable. Now, I was getting used to my legs shaking as I urinated; it was becoming routine to bite my lip and hold my breath until I was finished. Maybe, I would learn to do this better: sing a song, say a prayer, meditate, all as I attempted to urinate.
I responded with “fine” to a “how are you” and continued changing. After all, I was always fine- this is who I was supposed to be. I was not going to be on this end of the tunnel. I was permanently posted on the other end, to push children across until the light became visible to their desperate eyes. Do you not understand I am still the same woman, capable of pushing you across the tunnel, as you need me to? Please understand I am still the same person.
I passed the last step on the staircase, and smiled at my mother: everything was okay, ma. I swallowed the pills and reached out to the loaf of bread, eager to “insert” food in my system to create my new, improved, and revised “better health”. Internally acknowledging a desire to faint, I moved my cup under the fridge funnel for water. Since when had it become so difficult to drink water? Was I always like this, so forgetful, absent-minded, and unable to care for myself?
Please do not spin so fast, do not spin me so fast. If I am turning cold, please reverse my temperature. Tell me, the way I shake right now is a part of my imagination. Please, open up my eyes with force and compel me to see the consequences of my actions. Seal my complaints shut, but do not have me vomit the rest of myself out in my sister’s sink. Both of us, her and myself, will not be able to see years of survival dissolve in tap water. Let me gasp for breath, please remove this song from my mind, and please erase his words: “I am safe”.