Against Epiphanies

That title is from a Charles Baxter essay.  He was talking about the craft of the short story.   I am talking about myself and what is turning out to be the longest story of my life.

Today I went to work for the first time this year.  It went fine but all day I felt awful.  On the way home, I felt the prickle of tears.  In the fucking subway. A woman wearing too-expensive clothes and beautiful taupe shoes losing it in the New York subway.  I managed to keep it together -- this was a bad day but not so awful that I couldn't control myself. I prefer to lose it in public when I am unemployed and wearing ugly clothes and riding the bus.  Never in the subway. Not if I can help it.

At home, on my way to fetch a glass of water in the kitchen, it occurred to me that give or take a few days, it is seven months since the abortion.  Voila.  This is why I broke up with AL on Friday, why I drove him away. This is why I had a terrible day today.  This is why, like a drama queen, I threw myself on my bed and sobbed.  I haven't heard myself make those sounds in a few months. It hurt me to hear myself in such agony. Is that a strange thing to say? It was as if I'd separated from myself.

I called my friend Ann -- an SOS. She didn't know what hit her.

I am tired of this sorrow.  But I am not even past it enough to create new problems for myself, am I? I keep going back.

And I feel awful about AL. I wanted him to make everything better for me. How can I ask that of anyone?

My urge to tell people about the abortion has left me.  I haven't told anyone but AL. It's not that I've run out of people to tell, it's that I've become a bit ashamed of my neediness.  Every person who finds out tried to comfort me and that is all I want.  That is what is impossible to find and might be for a long time.

Day 2 at work tomorrow.  Let's see how well I can fake it.