The ground floor was occupied by a fish market. My shoes often smelled of fish water, but I couldn’t be bothered. We lived on the second floor, my roommate and I, with whom I had a falling out weeks before our return to the states, never to be reconciled. Something to do with her not liking my boyfriend.
I have never been much of a distance runner. I don’t have long legs, endurance, or the mental fortitude required to run, run and run. In High School I wanted so badly to be a part of a team.
Can I tell you a secret? I don’t normally do this, tell secrets, but sometimes, maybe, sharing something you’ve suppressed or held down can be life-giving, freeing. Not just for the secret holder, but for the ears that hear.
Because what my computer doesn’t know is that you’ve been gone now for two years. My computer doesn’t know how aggressive your skin cancer was. My computer doesn’t know that we stayed up late with you in your last days, that we stood over you hand in hand praying, that we whispered into your ear “it’s okay, now, let go.”
I’ve shared this before and feel it’s important to keep sharing: That while those unwanted houseguests wanted to rob the joy of my first child, while they played tricks on my body telling it it wasn’t hungry and that I didn’t need to eat, while I began wasting away body and mind, while everything felt like it was falling apart, in the midst of it all, I stopped and I got help.