I often find myself picturing a scene all too familiar. I’m crouched over a porcelain toilet, my stomach rebelling against me. The contents surge forth, splashing into the water below. The acrid taste of bile lingers, and a profound emptiness begins to envelop me.
This is my fault. I feel disgusting. A burden. Ashamed. Out of control. I wonder: would I choke? What would my son, Jamie, think?
I can see it clearly. In an instant, I collapse, my body convulsing as if caught in a violent storm. A seizure. My eyes roll back in their sockets.
This is my fault. I feel humiliated. A burden. Out of control. What if I black out? What would happen to Jamie?
I can imagine it vividly. I wake up drenched in blood, the warmth spreading across my body. White sheets are now stained crimson. I try to scream, but no sound escapes my lips. I want to wake my partner, Mark, to share the terrible truth: we lost the baby. Miscarriage. But I hesitate, not wanting to witness the sorrow that would fill his eyes.
This is my fault. I must have made a mistake. My body has betrayed me. Would we ever recover from this? Would we have to tell Jamie one day?
I can see it happening. I’m behind the wheel, the car inexplicably gaining speed. My foot searches frantically for the brake, but it eludes me. I’m spiraling out of control.
This is my fault. I feel reckless. I’m foolish. Out of control. Who would break the news to Mark? Would Jamie even remember me if I were gone?
I imagine it again. Standing atop a playground structure, Jamie missteps and falls, hitting the ground without a sound. I’m anxiously waiting for him to cry. As I rush to him, I scoop him up, but my hands are slick with his blood. Tears stream down my face as I scream for help.
This is my fault. I was careless. I should’ve been more vigilant. Was it worth the risk to go outside?
How could I have been so irresponsible? Would he survive?
I picture it once more. Rounding a corner, I see Mark’s feet hanging off the bed. He doesn’t respond. Silence fills the room. Approaching him, I realize he’s no longer breathing, his skin a ghastly blue. I scream, but my voice is stifled. I cry for help, but no sound emerges.
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