Aza, you’re going to survive this.
Even after they let me go home, Dr. Singh still came to my house twice a week to check on my progress.
I had switched to a different medication, which Mom made sure I took every morning,
and I wasn’t allowed to get up except to go to the bathroom lest I re-lacerate my liver.
I was out of school for two weeks. Fourteen days of my life reduced to one sentence,
because I can’t describe anything that happened during those days.
It hurt, all the time, in a way language could not touch. It was boring. It was predictable.
Like walking a maze you know has no solution. It’s easy enough to say what it was like, but impossible to say what it was.
Daisy and Davis both tried to visit, but I wanted to be alone, in bed.
I didn’t read or watch TV; neither could adequately distract me.
I just lay there, almost catatonic, as my mother hovered, perpetually near,
breaking the silence every few minutes with a question-phrased-as-a-statement.
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