Sitting, staring at this bottle of pills, I am terrified. Afraid of what this next dose will do. Frightened of who I may become; of all the things I may lose.
What will become of my relationship if one of my most essential characteristics melts away? If I am no longer a woman capable of grasping the truly important things, if I, instead, begin to fret and fight about the little shit that no one cares about – if I jump at every opportunity to snap – if I bitch and moan – if I throw things – my relationship will not survive.
I am his complement because I do not do these things. Because I take life lightly. With joy and empathy. Without anger, without complaint. In ecstasy. What will happen to me, to us, if this medication makes me lose that?
And, writing. What of that? I am a writer. I spend a vast portion of my time immersed in words – writing, editing, reading. Losing my ability to concentrate long enough to finish a thought, to find a word, to remember yesterday – these things are not acceptable, not tolerable, not an option.
I’ve been warned the relief will not be absolute. The pain will still come – often, probably, though less than before. It may hurt less, it could hurt more, but it will still come. Eventually the medicine, even if it works, will stop working and I’ll have to find another temporary patch. Is all of this worth it? Can I bear the pain? Should I?
Ahh, this vulnerability, hurt, confusion, and lack of assurance are so unlike me.
I have a wedding to go to tomorrow. All I ask is a day of no pain, no side effects, no complaints. Can such a wish be granted?