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waiting for the other shoe to drop // florence b.

a 41 year old stranger on reddit tells me that she is excited for me and that i will do just fine. i read her words and try to imagine them in my mother's voice. all i can hear is the familiar quiet hum my phone fills the silence with when i call and we run out of things to talk about too soon.

a week before i go under the knife my mother decides it is not her responsibility to be there for me and the three hour drive to the hospital is dumped onto my father's shoulders. he doesn't know how to talk to me about the procedure so he tells me about his outdoorsman buddies instead. i've watched him slide a knife through the bloody belly of a fish but he cannot fathom me in its place.

i am almost 22 yet i feel reduced to my small and sensitive 5 year old self. i let myself cry like a child grieving the maternal comfort i have always sought and never been awarded. i let myself get angry that my mother treats affection and support as handouts that only enable me to be too soft and reliant on others. i lay in bed and hold myself tightly because there is nobody else who will.

i wonder if my mother would take me seriously if i tried to kill myself again or if she still secretly believes suicide to be a selfish cry for help. i wonder what more i have to do to myself in order to illicit even an ounce of empathy from someone meant to provide endless and unconditional love.

in a week i will be on a cold metal table three hours away from home and pitted like a cherry. i feel scared and small so my 5 year old self reaches for the naive perception of safety and warmth from my mother. instead i am met with a lecture on my apparent inability to be self-sufficient. i look forward to the coming moment when my guts will spill and there is nothing but the viscera and sterile silence.