to, Lily?” Tony asked, pulling into traffic.
Responding, “Home please,” she pulled her phone out.
MY FREYJA: Heading home. I love you
Knowing Karen had Ian to herself that night, she slowly grew enraged. Broken dishes from her paroxysm kept her up past two; she didn’t want to leave a trace of her fit.
When Ian got Lilith’s text in the morning, he bit his lip until it slipped into a grin from her three simple words.
Finally She could hope for a better day
The sun is waking me up and I don’t even think it’s eight yet. I don’t want to get up, I was up too late. I need darker fucking curtains! I ball my fists and slam my arms into the mattress like a fit throwing teenager and groan. This is my second fit of frustration within ten hours.
Finally opening my eyes, I’m immediately full of anger and hate and it’s only increasing as I sit upright and look around. This is insane, I need to see a fucking doctor.
I begin to wonder if I hate this condo and maybe don’t realize it. Do I hate Ian? Do I hate myself for what I agreed to? Do I hate this huge rock on my finger? No! I laugh out loud and get out of bed. Now I smile because maybe I’m not going to have a terrible day. My anger has subsided after my laughter and I take a deep breath, deciding today will be a good day. As I walk into the bathroom, I stub my toe on the clunky high heel I wore last night.
“Shit!” It fucking hurts so goddam bad!
With a frustrated squeal, I slam the bathroom door closed; no one else is here, I could have peed with the door open, but I wanted to slam something. Resting my elbows on my knees while I sit on the toilet, I put my face into my hands and sit like this for ten minutes; I’m not even using the toilet, I just don’t want to move.
“Shit,” I groan, standing and pulling my shorts up.
Pulling up my shirt, I roll my eyes at the faded cuts. I haven’t had the urge to cut in over a week, but I haven’t seen Ian either and I know once I’m faced with some sort of insecurity, I’m going to lose my mind. Last night wasn’t insecurity, last night was detest that another woman’s hands were probably on the man I’m supposed to marry.
I grab my cellphone and search local physicians. I need to get on depression pills, anxiety pills, energy pills, anything they’ll give me before I lose Ian.
“When were you looking to come in?” the receptionist asks me.
“As soon as possible,” I say, leaning on the counter. I don’t think I’ve stood up straight since getting out of bed.
“I can get you in today at three.”
“Oh.” I didn’t expect it to be that soon.
“I had a cancellation this morning. If you’d like, I’ll book it for late next week. That’s the next availability.”
“No,” I say quickly. “Today’s fine. Thank you.”
“Arrive fifteen minutes early to fill out paperwork, and bring your insurance card with ID.”
“Thank you,” I repeat as fear fills my gut.
Am I ready to face the diagnosis of being crazy, or depressed, or bipolar, whatever? Shit, maybe I should call her back and schedule it for next week. I can’t, I need to face this now and get on pills now before I lose Ian.
It’s been days since I’ve actually dressed, and I don’t mean like last night; last night I was forced into wearing that. I’ve been in a bikini while in Florida—or a sheet—and prior to going, I was in lounging clothes. It feels good slipping into a tight, navy blue sailor dress. I’ve really grown to appreciate dressing like I’m somebody. After sliding on matching blue heals, I do my makeup. As I color my eyelids with a soft gray the image of my mother is disappearing and I’m getting more comfortable staring into the mirror. Finally my lipstick and I feel amazing, best I’ve felt in a few days. Maybe I can cancel this appointment. . . . Maybe I just need to get back into the routine of dressing every morning and doing my makeup and hair and feeling
Responding, “Home please,” she pulled her phone out.
MY FREYJA: Heading home. I love you
Knowing Karen had Ian to herself that night, she slowly grew enraged. Broken dishes from her paroxysm kept her up past two; she didn’t want to leave a trace of her fit.
When Ian got Lilith’s text in the morning, he bit his lip until it slipped into a grin from her three simple words.
Finally She could hope for a better day
The sun is waking me up and I don’t even think it’s eight yet. I don’t want to get up, I was up too late. I need darker fucking curtains! I ball my fists and slam my arms into the mattress like a fit throwing teenager and groan. This is my second fit of frustration within ten hours.
Finally opening my eyes, I’m immediately full of anger and hate and it’s only increasing as I sit upright and look around. This is insane, I need to see a fucking doctor.
I begin to wonder if I hate this condo and maybe don’t realize it. Do I hate Ian? Do I hate myself for what I agreed to? Do I hate this huge rock on my finger? No! I laugh out loud and get out of bed. Now I smile because maybe I’m not going to have a terrible day. My anger has subsided after my laughter and I take a deep breath, deciding today will be a good day. As I walk into the bathroom, I stub my toe on the clunky high heel I wore last night.
“Shit!” It fucking hurts so goddam bad!
With a frustrated squeal, I slam the bathroom door closed; no one else is here, I could have peed with the door open, but I wanted to slam something. Resting my elbows on my knees while I sit on the toilet, I put my face into my hands and sit like this for ten minutes; I’m not even using the toilet, I just don’t want to move.
“Shit,” I groan, standing and pulling my shorts up.
Pulling up my shirt, I roll my eyes at the faded cuts. I haven’t had the urge to cut in over a week, but I haven’t seen Ian either and I know once I’m faced with some sort of insecurity, I’m going to lose my mind. Last night wasn’t insecurity, last night was detest that another woman’s hands were probably on the man I’m supposed to marry.
I grab my cellphone and search local physicians. I need to get on depression pills, anxiety pills, energy pills, anything they’ll give me before I lose Ian.
“When were you looking to come in?” the receptionist asks me.
“As soon as possible,” I say, leaning on the counter. I don’t think I’ve stood up straight since getting out of bed.
“I can get you in today at three.”
“Oh.” I didn’t expect it to be that soon.
“I had a cancellation this morning. If you’d like, I’ll book it for late next week. That’s the next availability.”
“No,” I say quickly. “Today’s fine. Thank you.”
“Arrive fifteen minutes early to fill out paperwork, and bring your insurance card with ID.”
“Thank you,” I repeat as fear fills my gut.
Am I ready to face the diagnosis of being crazy, or depressed, or bipolar, whatever? Shit, maybe I should call her back and schedule it for next week. I can’t, I need to face this now and get on pills now before I lose Ian.
It’s been days since I’ve actually dressed, and I don’t mean like last night; last night I was forced into wearing that. I’ve been in a bikini while in Florida—or a sheet—and prior to going, I was in lounging clothes. It feels good slipping into a tight, navy blue sailor dress. I’ve really grown to appreciate dressing like I’m somebody. After sliding on matching blue heals, I do my makeup. As I color my eyelids with a soft gray the image of my mother is disappearing and I’m getting more comfortable staring into the mirror. Finally my lipstick and I feel amazing, best I’ve felt in a few days. Maybe I can cancel this appointment. . . . Maybe I just need to get back into the routine of dressing every morning and doing my makeup and hair and feeling
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