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Production of My Own Making

It took years… my lifetime, really, to create my production. The Union of my various selves, taking stage with pride to create the gorgeous display of myself to the world.  Creativity completed set designs, while Confidence took the microphone. Gentleness plays the harp in the quiet moments and Humor bangs the symbols while Passion directs the flow between the two, signaling for Self Reflection to dance in silences. Whimsy adds flow to every gown and Practicality controls lighting while Achievement directs the set pieces and Perfectionism has to keep herself from rushing on stage when Impulsive Delight misses her cues, knowing she’ll make it even better in the end. Empathy tweaks presentations to ensure the story aligns with Love’s desires and Hope’s ideals.  This was my production. My story. My life, dancing in display. And then I met my biggest fan. He watched, day in and day out, cheering at the highs and wiping tears with the lows. He said my production was his favorite. He admired
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Deleted Detective Emails

 My husband is kind. Peaceful. Breathing deeply beside me, his arm above his head, chin tucked.  I took a leftover pill from an old prescription because I cannot sleep or breathe or think. It will kick in soon. It will be easier then.  My thoughts are swirling. I talked about my ex-husband today. Briefly, but the subject was deep, and this seems to always happen. Speaking of him opens a Pandora’s box of anxiety. Panic. Depression. And in my desire for control, I think on the police report.  I don’t have evidence. The statute of limitations on everything after the nuptials expired 30 days after the incidents. Only one sexual assault charge could be pursued, but without evidence, it’s unlikely anything will happen. Unless he agrees with my version of events, nothing can be done. Right now, he doesn’t know about the police report. I listed as much as I could remember in the report. Though it has been one year, I still haven’t read it. I can’t. I tried once. When I think of the night I wen
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With a Bad Attitude, I will Hurl Myself Toward Healing

I decided to have bariatric surgery. There are a lot of reasons and maybe one day I’ll feel like listing them. To put it simply, it feels like the answer to a number of heartbreaking questions I have when I feel my own body existing in a world that is too small and too big all at once.  To qualify for insurance covering the surgery, I had a psych evaluation. The recommended psychiatrist is a man who does these evaluations often. The perk is he knows exactly what insurance needs to hear to approve the surgery. The downside? It felt sterile, clinical, distant to speak to him. I was one of many patients he was seeing for these quick two visits- $120 to meet him, $20 to follow up and have him read my results from a computerized personality test.  I knew what to expect of the test. The beginning pages have warnings against trying to be dishonest: “this test measures attempts to cover the truth.” I knew when being asked about the past six months that my results would reflect that I still str
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One of Those Nights

 I haven’t written because I feel made of ugliness, resentment, and criticisms. I don’t want to codify these thoughts and I don’t have the energy to pretend I feel anything else.  I’m exhausted.  My soul itself is surviving on sighs of complacency and hope for joy on the horizon.  I’m not happy.  I feel shaken.  My foundation cracked. I’m sad.  I’m filling my time with projects and people to keep the dark thoughts at bay. WhenI’m alone, too tired to do one more thing, my breaths feel quick and my heart beats faster while I think of all the ways I am simply not enough.  There is not enough of me.  There are too many needs. Too many requests. And I am not enough.  These seasons always pass. I know they do. This is worse than the past because I have had tangible reasons to struggle. I’ve had to accept apologies and forgive. I’ve had to put my ugliness aside and speak with love. I’ve held my biting words aside as much as my fragile self control would allow- speaking truth instead. For the
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Want Tomorrow for Them

Tonight the lump in my throat feels permanent. The parts that broke when he left have lodged themselves in my esophagus, where people refer to when they say, "that went down the wrong pipe", coughing goodnaturedly about a jagged chip that tried to become air.  That is what loving him felt like.  Air, turned jagged, lodged in my throat. Panic, pain, unexpected interruption from something so seemingly innocent.  It hurts tonight, pulsing with a familiar weight as though it's always been there and it will never leave. Experience keeps my head above water. This will pass again.  This morning began with a jolt. The nightmare was over. It wasn't real. Not anymore.  Get up.  Get dressed.  Brush teeth.  Wash face.  Housework.  Housework.  Email ding.  "Dear Melissa, please complete this new patient packet before your appointment next week."  I sat on the couch, folding my legs beneath me, clicking the attachment in the email to begin answering questions about family
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A Bit Bummy for 3am

It's 2:25 in the morning.  Derek's stomach was growling so he made himself a bowl of Cheerios. I whispered, hoping not to wake our sleeping dog who would greet us with ear-shattering howls, "Have you ever, in your life, been satisfied by a bowl of cereal?" He smiled and kissed me, "I like Cheerios."  Not Honey Nut, mind you. Plain Jane, nothing added, bland give-to-a-teething-baby kind of Cheerios.  He's a simple man. He's a kind man, full of generosity, who appreciates simple things.  We'd gone to bed at 9:00pm. A glass of wine with dinner made us both a bit sleepy. It was the first day I didn't have to take pain medication, just a bit of ibuprofen. I was ready to rest.  It was midnight when I woke to Derek, trying to sneak out of our bedroom. He felt terrible for waking me. I assured him that he didn't need to. I know I'm a light sleeper. I often need to get up in the middle of the night.  An hour and a half later, he returned, apol
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Prescription Validation

“I’m seeing black spots.” I knew my tone was casual. “Do you need to lay down?” My coworker was concerned.  I tried shaking my head, “I should be fine…”  My dad was walking through with patient information and stopped short. “What’s going on?”  I don’t remember it clearly after that point. I know he wheeled me to a patient’s room. My chair didn’t want to move over doorframes and I remember being ashamed that it was likely my weight making it difficult. I was embarrassed. We had an office full of patients.  I began to dry heave.  My coworker came in, asked again about the heavy period I’d been having. “And there’s no chance you’re pregnant?” “If I was, I don’t think I could be now.” “I hate to think miscarriage.” “I’ve been wondering that too.” The words stung. My vision was still spotty.  I was helped onto an exam table. 30 minutes later there was a wheelchair, my dad helping me into it, explaining my husband would be here soon and we were going to see the OBGYN that I’d made an appoin
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