Through the Crack in the Door

I'm back. I'm not sure why. These past few weeks have been hell. After throwing up seemingly countless pills and home remedies for nausea, I finally found something that at least keeps the sickness at bay. Unfortunately, I still have very little appetite. I struggle to force food down my throat. It's a wonder my baby is still living.

A couple of mornings ago, I woke up so weak that my whole body felt like tissue paper. I felt like I could have crumpled or floated away on a stiff breeze. If only I could have.

I keep fantasizing about my own death. I was so sick recently that I wished I would pass out face-down in the toilet and drown. I don't know how people with cancer and other hideously painful diseases continue to live. If it were me, I'd probably eat a gun.

This is why I haven't written in weeks. It has all been too much to express.

I visited my psychiatrist a couple of weeks ago, when I wasn't quite this far into the dark. He told me he wanted to put me on Prozac right away. My husband became upset when I told him the news. He thought the shrink should have at least offered me some alternatives to medication. He asked me what I thought of going on medication, and I didn't have an opinion. I said I just wanted to feel better.

What would my husband know about it, anyway? I tell him about wanting to drown in the toilet, and he doesn't seem to take it seriously enough. I probably said more to my psychiatrist in that 30 minute session than I had said to my husband all that week. His mind is so wrapped up in that damn Navy training that he might not notice if his hair were on fire. It also doesn't help that I see him less than two hours a day. And half the time he falls asleep during one of those.

I'll be glad when this shit is over.