My Life, Deleted by Scott Bolzan

I couldn’t find the orange plastic pill containers where I thought I’d left them last, I’d have to wait until she came back to get some relief.
    â€œWhere are my pain pills?” I’d ask.
    She’d tell me they were behind the plant, out of sight, or in the kitchen drawer with all the pots.
    â€œWhy did you put them there?” I’d ask, seeing no rhyme or reason in those particular locations.
    â€œI was cleaning,” she’d say.
    I was confused, wondering if this was normal. After this kept happening, it seemed more than coincidental, but not wanting to make waves, I just took note of it.
    However, it also didn’t help build trust that she kept leaving the room to make telephone calls. Here I was, struggling to find my place in the house and our family, and she was disappearing to go talk quietly somewhere to who knows who. Was she making plans to leave me? Did she think her job with me was done? Was she making arrangements for someone else to come and take me away?
    I started covertly following her into the hallway to listen. That’s when I realized she was mostly confiding in her closest girlfriends, Karen and Johnna.
    â€œI don’t know what we’re going to do,” Joan said. “He doesn’t know the dogs, he doesn’t know his kids, me. Nothing. And I don’t know how to take over the business.”
    Once I realized she wasn’t trying to get rid of me, I was relieved. I was also glad that she had people to go to for emotional support when she was frustrated with me, my medical issues, our relationship, or our financial situation. I only wished that I had someone of my own to call because she always seemed happier and better equipped to deal with me once she got off the phone. The only person I really had to talk to about my difficulties was Joan.
    But now that I fully understood how much the ramifications of my injury were wearing on her, I tried even harder to hide my emotions and to hold back even more details about what a difficult time I was having. This, however, only fueled my inner turmoil and made me feel increasingly frustrated and ill-tempered. Sometimes it built up so much, I felt like I was going to explode.
    One day I teared up as I watched a medical documentary about babies being born, featuring scenes of the father holding his newborn for the first time, crying tears of joy with his wife, and cutting the umbilical cord.
    I’ve been there, bringing children into this world, and I want to remember how special it was.
    As I felt a mix of emotions overtaking me, I went outside and sat in the lounge chair facing away from the house so Joan couldn’t see me. Hunched over with my elbows on my knees and my face in my hands, I cried for a good five minutes, trying to muffle the sobs so Joan and the neighbors couldn’t hear me. This was a moment I didn’t want to share with anyone—or burden them with. When I was done, I wiped my hands and eyes with my T-shirt and went back to my chair inside, trying to act as if nothing had happened. These outbursts helped release some of my stress, but the relief was only temporary. My well of darkness seemed bottomless.
    For obvious reasons, I never told Joan about those moments although I did catch her having one of her own in the shower one morning. Hearing her sobbing, I came in to check on her.
    â€œAre you okay?” I asked, reaching in and rubbing her back.
    â€œYeah,” she said, trying to hide her face, apparently trying to protect me from seeing her cry just as I’d been trying to protect her. “It’s just hard.”
    Sometimes, though, the rage came over me with such force that I was unable to control myself, and I’d snap at whoever wasn’t cooperating with whatever I wanted to do, including the dog.
    â€œMocha, get outside!” I yelled at our brown Lab. She didn’t understand why I was raising my voice to her, so she peed on the kitchen