two years out

I wrote this just about a year ago, at the time it was one year from the procedure, now it's nearing two. Most days I can handle the decision, but some days, I can feel the weight of my decision. I recently read an article in Vanity Fair magazine about Joni Mitchell, Carly Simon and Carole King in which they discuss Joni Mitchell's song "Little Green". Before I read the article, I had no idea it was written about a little girl she'd given up for adoption. Listening to the song on my Ipod this morning, it was all I could do to hold back the tears--as I hadn't even given mine the chance to be born. And there are very few people in this world that even know I went through that.

So I give you my words from last year:

Sometimes the line between fantasy and reality blurs so much you aren't sure which side you're on, until reality smacks you so hard in the face it knocks a little bit of your consciousness streetside.

When the fantasy turns into a pismire of anguish, a corner you never thought you'd have to turn, a crossroads you never in your wildest dreams imagined yourself standing at, suddenly, urgently, it's time to act.

It all comes into focus: you, standing in the center, glowing like nuclear waste, and there they are on either side of you, calling, crying, pulling...and there you are, shimmering away, full of disgust for yourself and wondering how exactly you got there in the first place. Except you know exactly how you got into this predicament, and it disgusts you even more.

He told you he doesn't know how to cry, but there he is, sobbing away, creating some suicide plan, elaborately described--blood spattering clean new condo walls. He has the gun, he knows where to get it, he's going to use it, if you do that. If you do it, I will do it, he says. You are afraid to get in his car, check twice beneath the seat for a weapon.

You are going to do it. This is not how it's meant to be. You pick up the phone, driving home, you call the number, you make an appointment. Hang up the phone shaking your head, wondering in amazement how your insurance could possibly cover this kind of thing.

Meanwhile, the man at the other side of the crossroads seemingly rides up on a white horse, swoops you away and carries you home. This one, from whom you were trying to escape in the first place.

Standing on the cold concrete, wearing your sweatpants in the city, wearing no makeup, pushing past the throngs of protesters and naysayers, pulling down sunglasses and averting eyes.

Four hours later, it's over.... an overwhelming sense of relief rushes over you..maybe that's just the drugs-- but you swear they sucked some of your own soul out, too, while you were on that table.