post-op

the edges of myself

i hate when people ask me if I’m okay, i had once said to him.

puzzled, he asked, why?

because i never know what response is required from me, i admitted, am i supposed to say the honest answer to that question? or should i lie for another person’s benefit? who does the question honor? it’s usually not me. he laughed, as he did, and remarked about some ineffable quality he saw in me and the way my mind worked. but it is alienating, the neurodivergent experience of never being understood in the way you process, the way you express, the way you emote. i feel even more alienated now that it’s not just a disability in my mind, but now my body is not able.

i mask how i feel all the time.

now that i have stitches it seems more appropriate to unmask. but i am still not replying to texts because i don’t have it in me to be truthful. i am tired and mad and sad and everything is irritating. i am rewatching friends on hbo and i hit fast forward every time ross says anything. because, shut the fuck up, with your too much gel in your hair and your stupid dinosaur tie. this is why you’ve been divorced three times. you fumbled the love of your life because of an ego that’s unwarranted, took ten years to get her back, preventing her from embarking on a dream job working for louis vuitton in paris. i hate ross geller. true. but he is just someone i am projecting onto. he’s fictional. is that okay?

i’m wondering on the question that most people ponder—what’s more painful, emotional pain or physical pain? bodily pain made me lose the edges of myself. mental anguish rooted me, with too much clarity, exactly where i was.

eight hours of darkness. eight hours of not feeling the fingers i’m using to type this, eight hours of not feeling the toes i’ve covered with two blankets.

and the well-wishes are coming in and some move me to tears. but i don’t have it in me to be nicer than i should when my ex-best friend texts me. i’m affronted that she knows more about me than she should. i want to shout at everyone that’s failed to love me—get the fuck away from me and don’t come back. but a smaller whisper in the back of my head, why aren’t you able to? won’t you come back to just try?

i don’t have it in me to mask anymore, to be the person who thinks of things with introspection and compassion and clarity, the person who believed she could talk through anything with anyone.

because when they wheeled me to the OR, we passed by windows. the sky was blue.

and i saw him, sitting across from me at tartina’s, two decembers ago, telling me, i’ll take you to the hospital. i’ll wait with you, for as long as you need. i had coughed up blood at dinner.

and i think to myself, as i take in the blue, i could die right now, and he wouldn’t know. i told my mother not to cry when she kissed my forehead. i told my father to tell her not to cry as he kissed mine too. and i smiled, waved until the nurse and i turned the corner, and then i felt my chest tighten.

i was alone. he had never waited, and never would.

oxygen mask over my face. nurse said, take a deep breath for me, yes, like that. another? another?

one more smile.

then nothing.