when you just sit there, let him touch you, and hope this creepy doctor won’t forever be the last man who has touched you before you died ..
when he strikes you as the kind of man who visits prostitutes a lot, has hence picked up the habit to compliment ‘your beautiful slender body’ a few times in the half hour, forgetting this is his office, not his bedroom ..
when you remove the parts of you that give away your foreignness, but are never the less starkly reminded of it wherever you go. as your first ever lover said in the letter he cowardly left for you to read, ‘you’re just too different’ ..
when even the creepy doctor ends the appointment giving you a free pass to break down (in his arms?), and you don’t, so he calls you a warrior woman, and reminds you that he’s there if there are any questions. and you just look back at him, puzzled, since you actually really do not have any further questions, nor any need to break down, not to him, not to anyone.
when you feel glad you didn’t wear your bright red lipstick to the creepy doctor’s, the lipstick you bought two days ago, thinking, if there ever was a time to start wearing the bright red lipstick, and then wear it all the way back home, giddy with glee. and then the next day too, as you go to apply for welfare in your power-woman collar, pulled high. the woman doing the intake listens, compassionately, then comments that ‘you’re still quite cheery, all things considered.’ and you know it’s the lipstick and accessories, preventing her to put you under her feet, see you as another leech, trying to latch on to the system..
when the way too sweet friend tells you how well her kid is doing at soccer practice, but you’re too self-involved to notice, to ask about it more, praise the boy, watch her face light up for a change.. then reflect on it hours later, wishing you could have seen her bright face, even just for a moment, the face she has been missing for years now, the face we all desperately hope she’ll get back..
when you take the time to update your next of kin about the question everybody’s been asking for days, knowing your kid will jump up and down, do hand-stands and cart wheels and made up songs behind you, just so that you can’t get a word in edge-wise, and you do it any way, ignoring the ‘it’s way past her bed time’, teaching her her needs don’t matter, then hating yourself for it, hating whoever taught you yours don’t either ..
when that intake woman sends you the sweetest, most hopeful and well-wishing email you received in for ever, wishing you strength, healing and a life more beautiful than ever before, and makes your whole day sparkle with joy..
when you feel happy and grateful and then, as you’re eating your curly fries, see a most beautiful, young girl in a ride-around high-tech wheel chair, the kind with a joy stick and head support cushion, the kind you only get if you know you’ll be staying in it for the years to come, and as you stare at her face framed by the black veil that brings out her eyes, she turns to you, catches your stare, then looks away. and you fight the urge to go over and explain that you’re not looking because of the wheel chair, nor because of the veil, but because of her looks, you fight the urge to go over and ask her if, when this, whatever it was, happened to her, if everyone was rushing to give her well-meaning advice to have patience, that it’s a test, that Paradise is sweet and God knows best. to ask if she’s angry with Him, to ask if she too feels betrayed, or if she’s equated Him out of her emotional equation, the only way to survive and still believe..
when it’s late at night and you’re writing it all down, semi-true semi-fictitious, deliberating with your self whether to share it on facebook or forever keep this day just on your blog, for the die-hards. then remember you parents are your ‘friends’, and so you choose for them not to think of your lovers, not to know about creepy doctors, not to know you, really. and just hit ‘publish’.