there's something wrong with me

There’s something wrong with me. 

I used to dream all the time, but lately I haven’t. And when I do dream, or at least when I do recall them, I dream my teeth fall out of my mouth. Or they shatter. Or my gums bleed.

Last night I dreamed I lost my hair. I knew why it fell out. And it was because in my dream, it was me who was sick. As I massaged shampoo into my scalp, I pulled my hand back to see wet strands clinging to my fingers. It slipped off my sore head in uneven clumps, sticking to the walls and the floor until the water pushed them toward the drain. The water rose to my knees. I knew I would drown. I ran crying to my mom, but the only comfort she could offer me was a razor to my scalp to remove the excess.

Like what she had to do for my dad three weeks ago.

I had seen myself so clearly in the reflection of a mirror, that I awoke shocked, relieved to still have hair. I lay in my bed, covered in sweat, the air heavy in my lungs. I’ve never been so aware of the beating of my heart, the pulse in my veins, the flow of my blood. And I wondered how much longer before my own body betrays me. Before I’m like my dad: before it’s my own traitorous blood cells that try to kill me.

I don’t wonder how long my dad has left. The doctors already told us.

They don’t seem to know anything about multiple myeloma besides the name and how to make a patient’s pocket bleed before they die.

My dad is going to die.

The doctors know that much too.

Every night me and my family sit at the dinner table, and they pray while I stare at the ceiling. And I wonder if my loss of faith is what is wrong with me. But I know that can’t be it. If there is a god, then I won’t worship one who could do this. Or one who can prevent this and won’t.

I don’t go to church anymore because I can’t stand the looks I get. I can’t stand it when they tell me that “God will make this work out for good.” There’s no comfort in that. There’s no comfort in telling someone that there’s a reason for everything. My mom says it to me and I want to scream. My dad doesn’t deserve to die. My mom doesn’t deserve to lose another husband. My siblings don’t deserve to lose their father before they’ve even finished high school.

I don’t think I deserve it. Who does?

It’s not quick. It’s slow, gradual, and painful. And it hurts all of us. It hurts all of us. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

If there’s a god he is twisting the knife in the wound and laughing at our pleas.

We are all bleeding. It's not funny. It's cruel.

It’s all happened so quickly.

When I set the date of my wedding for the spring, back in June, things seemed to have been getting better. My dad’s hemoglobin was on the rise, and the other cancer markers were falling. Then my parents went on that trip in July. But in August, my dad had to go to the emergency room because his lungs were filling up with blood. In September my dad’s hair fell out.

And on my birthday, they told my dad he has one month to live.

The only thing I can think about is that my dad won’t be able to dance with me at my wedding. Does that make me selfish? Is that what’s wrong with me?

It’s happening all over again. Just like last October, when they first told us that if my dad didn’t respond to treatment, he had about 10 months left to live. And just like last time, I can feel myself falling apart. It’s overcoming me. I felt it all last winter, something much more bitter than any cold.

But it’s stronger this time, and it’s consuming me.

There’s something wrong with me. I can taste blood in my mouth. I'm sure it's on my breath. But no one asks me how I am, they don’t ask me how I’m doing. Nobody seems to care. Or maybe they do care, maybe they do want to ask. They’re probably just scared of the answer because they never know what to say besides, "I'm sorry." Sometimes they ask me what they can do to help. You can't do anything. No one can do anything. My dad is going to die. 

I don’t want them to ask because I don’t want to cry. But I do want them to ask because I need to. But if I start, I’ll know I’ll never stop.

That’s how it was last winter.

I texted my best friend a confession last night.

i've been feeling really depressed.

She took an hour to respond.

Yeah, about what particularly?

I wanted to say, "everything," but instead I said:

idk. I've just been feeling super sad all the time. and it was better while we were in portland, but now i'm home and it's like there's a weight on my chest. like i can feel that there's something physically wrong with me.

What do you mean?

i cant do anything but i have so much to do like today all i did was lay in bed all day and i knew i should get up and do my homework, or sign up for the insurance classes, or plan my wedding, or look for internships, or clean my fucking room, but i cant. instead i took like four naps.

Have you considered talking to someone?

i'm talking to you.

Like last winter, most mornings I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to find the strength to get up. It's much more difficult than last time. I've never been this tired. My heart is working against me, draining me away. It tethers me to the bed. It's become a weight pressing on my chest and I can't move. 

Maybe everything is too hard. Maybe I'm just too weak. 

I don't talk about my feelings. I try to write them down, but I never get the words quite right. They don't have the same weight, they don't relieve the pressure on my chest. So I have to carry this pain around with me.

I can set it down for a moment. I set it down when I go to work and when I go to see my friends. But it waits for me. I can see it through the windows and in bathroom mirrors. It waits for me outside the building, in my car, in the shower, in my bed. It never leaves. 

When I go to bed, it curls on my chest like a cat, like this is where it belongs.

There's something wrong with me. 

I've been having trouble showering: just physically getting into the shower. I can't bring myself to wash my face in the morning or even brush my hair. I chew the inside of my lips until my mouth bleeds even though I know it'll be sore for weeks. The books I started reading months ago are covered in dust. My laundry basket is overflowing, but washing the clothes seems impossible. 

My sisters come into my room and ask me to help clean. They ask me if I'm going to make dinner. They ask me if I'm going to eat. I tell them no. The older of my two younger sisters gets mad. She yells at me, tears bleeding out of her eyes. She calls me selfish. She calls me lazy. She slams the door of my room and I hear her tell the rest of my siblings of my refusal to help. 

Maybe that's what's wrong with me. Maybe I'm just lazy.

But I can't help. I can't move.

If I was the same person I was a year ago, I would've fought with her. We would have screamed at each other for an hour. I used to be so passionate, but now I'm just numb. I can't even be angry with her anymore. She can't see that there's nothing left in me but the weight in my chest. No one can.

I just lay in my bed and I know the me I loved is dying.

I think that's what's wrong with me.

My body is rotting and no one can smell it.