Thanks for the link

I wanted to share with you all a pros poem I wrote after our loss, before I was diagnosed. I wrote this over two years ago.

As I grow more tired with each day, I know that you can see my mind splitting in half, dividing into sections that either define me or betray me. I know you hear me telling you that something is not right and that you can see that idea echoed through my eyes, ricocheting into my skull, becoming something demented in my mind. I know you can see it, but let’s just ignore all the issues. You are so ****ing good at that. You watch my mind melt behind my eyes, just a wasted, wilting candle, but you ask me what I’d like for dinner, because that, to you, is the most relevant thing at hand and you can’t bare to face the disorienting music. You’d rather watch me scream and throw our dead child’s crib about the room, as if it weighed only an ounce, with a strength that is not mine. You’d rather have me threaten you with hollow words, holding a gun to my temple, at least I thought I was, than make a simple phone call to the pastor, or the councelor, or anyone at all for that matter. You watch me struggle with not distinguishing between what I did yesterday and what I dreamed last night. It must be entertaining to watch my spirit break in half. I miss the day when I knew you loved me more than any other thing on the planet, but now there is another woman: her name is time. Her name is video games and pizza with beer. Her name is ‘we don’t have the money’ and ‘I’m not in the mood.’ Her name is ‘I’m too tired.’ Her name is a whisper of words you haven’t said yet…’I don’t care.’ Her name is a million things and there’s all these things, and there will always be so many things running ahead of me in your own personal race to death in a dead sprint to beat me to the finish line. You don’t seem concerned when I show up at home after walking around alone and crazed in the middle of the night and my face is streaked with blood. Or maybe it was just tears, I can no longer tell the difference. You said ‘it’s time for bed’ and that was it. There was no concern on your face or guilt in your heart. And you can’t see how messed up I’ve become, and you are blind to the fact that self-inflicted pain and bleeding is never a good sign. You don’t see the images I see like an infinite tape of my own true life horrors, of bleeding puddles in the ER, of a tiny fetus wrapped in plastic lying in the garbage. You can’t see it because you can’t feel it, either. I say ‘I don’t want to live anymore’ but you can’t seem to hear me. I want peace and I want sleep. I want to finally feel rested.