Splotchy Sunshine

 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...

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 ...