two sides to this story

“You know, there’s the North York- I mean, Scarborough mobile crisis team.”

I know.

“How close do you get to jumping off a ten storey building?”

Too close.

“It’s too early to know.”

Four years too late.

Help Me

Fuck Off

What if I want a future? What if I want a wife who will steal my pager while I’m in the shower and tell people to “leave her the fuck alone”? I want someone to hold onto when my meds make me vomit. I want to freak out and rush my kid to the emergency room to find out it’s a simple ear infection. There is so much I know I can do! I could be great at being a doctor, a mother, a wife. I love to memorize all the pieces of a body that work together, to explore the intricacies of life and find out how/why things go wrong. I’m good at that. What if instead of dying what I really want is to bypass all of this and get it right?

What if I don’t see a future? What if all I can find in mine is an older version of me, pissed at my parents and trying to become content with unhappiness? I see twelve more medications and four more years of treatment, alternating between completely lost and completely functional. There is so much I can’t reach. I can’t get to my thoughts anymore; they’re somewhere just beyond my fingertips. It’s there, somewhere, frustratingly close and just as impossible. What if I can’t ever get it back?