The whole time I kept pretending that I didn’t know what the problem was, that I was caught in forces beyond my understanding, some inherited pattern, a prolonged case of bad luck, but I was lying to myself. I knew what the problem was. I know what the problem is.
The longer I tried to pretend ignorance, the more painful became the knowing. At first, it didn’t seem like such a big deal. A worthwhile hurting for the continuation of a stillborn hope.
I remember how it felt to hold it. Cradle it and sing it lullaby’s. I remember how it felt to rock it slowly and imagine I felt its breath. I remember how it felt to feel it warm next to my heart.
I remember how hard it was to remember to forget it was only warm because it was leeching heat from my body.
I remember how hard it was to remember to forget that beneath the pretty rose blanket, and without the air conditioning running full blast, without the incense burning around the clock, it was just a rotting mass of flesh, features long lost to the breakdown of tissue and proteins.
My friends stopped coming to visit. They couldn’t take the lie. Actually, I used to tell myself they were just jealous of how beautiful it was….In truth, they tried to save me. Their soft words of reality brought snarling anger and a delusional insistence that would have driven anyone away… or insane.
In the quiet of their leaving, slowly, eventually, I began to realize it. It happened in odd ways. Things I never noticed because I was too busy telling everyone else all the reasons they didn’t exist.
But, finally, I became annoyed that it never smiled. I noticed how the eyes were always closed. I thought maybe I should bathe it more often, or perhaps take it to the doctor. Surely something was wrong that it smelled so strangely all the time.
I remember when I first realized I was getting cold. When it occurred to me that it was not warm against me, that, in fact, it was making me cold.
I remember realizing the soft, sticky, sickly-sweet ooze creeping over my side and into the cushion of the rocking chair.
I remember the moment I pulled the blanket back and really saw it.
I’m still screaming.
I know this… I know that they found me standing catatonic, its shapeless mass slowly oozing over the sides of the changing table.
I know they took me away. Somewhere warm and quiet and still.
I know they took it away, too. Somewhere cold and moist and deep.
I know they put it where the ooze and smell and cold and soft, popping sounds are normal.
I know they put me where the silence and stillness and total refusal to engage was ok.
I know I’m still screaming.
I know no one hears me.
They come in, they feed me things I cannot taste.
They speak words that have no meaning.
They prick me with some cold thing that brings the dreams back and for a while, I forget.
But I always remember. I know what the problem is. I’ve always known.
The problem is, I can’t stop screaming.