I can picture it vividly. Standing over a porcelain throne, my stomach betraying me as its contents make a swift exit into the water below. The taste of bile lingers, and I’m engulfed by an overwhelming emptiness.
This is my fault. I feel repulsive. I feel like a burden. I am utterly ashamed. I feel as if I’m spiraling out of control.
Will I choke? Will my little one, Jake, be frightened?
I can see it happen. Suddenly, I collapse, my body convulsing as if it has a mind of its own. It’s like a seizure. My eyes roll back, and I’m lost.
This is my fault. I feel embarrassed. I am a burden. I am out of control.
What if I black out? What would happen to Jake?
I envision it again. Waking up, drenched in my own blood, warmth enveloping me. I glance around to see pristine white sheets now stained crimson. I try to scream, but no sound escapes my lips. I want to wake my partner, Mark, to share the news I dread: We’ve lost the baby. Miscarriage. But I hesitate. I can’t bear to see the pain in his eyes.
This is my fault. I must have made some mistake. I feel inadequate. My body feels like it’s betrayed me.
Would we ever recover from this? Would we someday tell Jake?
I imagine it once more. I’m driving, and suddenly the car speeds up. My foot searches desperately for the brake, but it eludes me. I’m accelerating uncontrollably.
This is my fault. I am reckless. I am foolish. I am out of control.
Who will break the news to Mark? Does Jake even remember me when I’m gone?
I picture us on the playground, and Jake tumbles from the structure. He falls hard and doesn’t cry. I wait, hoping for that sound. I rush to scoop him up, only to find myself covered in his blood. Tears stream down my face as I scream for help.
This is my fault. I was careless. Maybe going out wasn’t worth the risk.
How could I let this happen? Would he survive?
I can see it now. Rounding the corner, I spot Mark’s feet dangling off the bed. He doesn’t respond. A sinking feeling washes over me as I approach. He’s not breathing. His skin is blue. My screams are silent.
I’m shouting for help, but no sound comes out.