LJ Idol 10 - Week 1 - I Need The Struggle To Feel Alive
“So what did he say?” The friend slips onto the steps next to her and wraps an arm around her. The other hand holds her coffee precariously and a rolled cigarette that threatens to drop ash into the coffee. She leans her head on her friends shoulder and sighs, squinting at the phone screen in the late May afternoon sun.
“’I like you but not enough to see you exclusively.’ Dick,” she laughs bitterly, lifts her head from her friends shoulders and locks her phone. “He wasn’t even good looking enough to be that much of a dick.” Her friend splutters on her cigarette.
“I’m sorry darling.” She pats the girls knee.
The girl shrugs and throws her cigarette on the floor. She stands and jumps down the step, landing on the cigarette and spinning back to her friend to stub it out. “Back to work.”
“Come for a drink tonight?”
“Maybe.”
…
It’s not him that causes the tears that night, sitting cross-legged on her sofa with a bowl of mac and cheese in front of her and a glass of wine to her left. It’s not him, but what he possibly stood for. The potentially mended heart from last years break, the comfort of having someone at the end of a phone or to give a hug to after a bad day. It’s not him.
…
Her hands shake as she glares at the cross on the test. No, this can’t be happening. Not to me.
“And?” Her sister says looking over her shoulder whilst stirring the dhal.
“Fuck,” is all she answers and her sister drops the wooden spoon with a clatter and pulls her into a hug. She’s younger, her sister, by 7 years but at that moment she feels like the younger one. She clings to her sister and lets out a half sob, half hysterical laugh into her shoulder. “Fuck.” She repeats.
“What are we going to do?” Her sister asks and she’s never wanted to stick her head in the sand so much as she does right now. She doesn’t miss the “we” through from her sister and grips her hand across the table.
“Call mum.”
…
Her mother and her have always been close, some people think it’s weird how closer her and her entire family are but she wouldn’t have it any other way. They are her best friends. She can practically feel the hug down the phone and lets out the tears that she’s been holding on to the second she hears her mothers voice.
“I’m so sorry,” she sobs and wishes beyond anything that her mother was here right now, not half way across the world. “I’m on the pill mum, I swear.”
“Don’t apologise babe,” her mother’s voice has softened since the tears started.
“Oh God, mum I can’t do this, not on my own.”
“You’re not on your own.”
…
“Mum there’s something wrong,” she says, clutching her stomach. She’s been awake since 5 am, stabbing pains in her low abdomen, feeling the sick pit of guilt in her stomach. The guilt at the hope that maybe there really was something wrong. Maybe the decision is being taken out of her hands.
Her mother covers her hands with her own. “Call the doctor.”
…
“It’s normal,” the doctor says, her face a mixture of emotions as she looks at the young woman who clearly doesn’t want this to be happening to her. The young woman who wont even look at the monitor. The doctor is used to allaying fears of happy expectant mothers not breaking the bad news that everything is ok.
“Thank you.” She says because her mother bought her up well and that’s what you say, even when you don’t really mean it.
…
“I can’t do this mama,” she resorts to the childish name she called her mother in the car. Her mothers hand lands on her knee from the front seat, her father’s driving, gazed pointedly fixed forward.
“I know.” Her mother replies, squeezing her fingers.
“I don’t want you to hate me.” She says, silent tears rolling down her face. She draws absent circles on the window, and thinks about her mothers Catholic upbringing.
“I never would,” her mother says. “Never.”
…
The phone gripped in her hand, the girl holds it to her ear and brushes away a tear that falls. The voice of the counsellor in her ear is asking her how she feels about the decision she’s making.
“I’m being so selfish,” she says down the phone and the counsellor stays silent. “But am I?” She’s desperate for someone to tell her this is ok, that this is the right decision for her and to be selfish would be to stick to her own upbringing and have this life that is looming on the horizon for her. Selfish because it’s not what she wants, and would she resent it years down the line, would she regret it, this uphill struggle? The stigma?
“You’re talking to me,” the counsellor says, “that proves that this isn’t an easy decision for you. That, by definition, makes it unselfish."
She thinks back to her older sisters excited face when she told her, and chokes back a sob. She sitting in her car outside her office and has 10 minutes left to pull herself together before she has to walk back in.
“How can I justify this decision with my old beliefs?” She asks.
“Do you have friends and family behind you?” The counsellor asks.
She nods before she can speak, “yes...I’m lucky with that.”
“If they still love you and are with you, then you will have to find the justification in yourself.”
…
Her mother drives her, their fingers linked on the gear stick the whole way. Her mother is quiet but she knows why. She feels sick with guilt, the internal struggle, battle, is still waging inside her. Is this right? Is this ok? Do I go through with this? You can’t do this alone, a voice inside her says. You can, but do you want to? Another voice asks.
The clinic is clean, tidy and quiet. The women greet her with sympathetic smiles and gentle hands on shoulders leading her down corridors away from the safety of her mum. At 31 she still needs her mum right now.
“She can come with you,” one of the women says and goes off to retrieve her mother. Her mothers hand finds her own and she breathes again, swallowing back tears. She’s so tired of crying.
…
The nurse scans her belly and her mother locks eyes with her, not wanting to see the screen either.
“I’m so sorry,” she mouths at her mother and her mother’s eyes read loud and clear with I will ALWAYS love you, no matter what.
…
It’s over before she knows it and she relishes in the pain, hugs herself in the car and wishes the pain would stay until she can forgive herself.
Her sister pushes a cup of tea into her hand and her mother sends her off to bed. She cries herself to sleep.
…
Two days later and the pain is too much. She can’t talk to the dispatcher on the phone. Her parents drive her to hospital again and she sits clutching a hot water bottle as her mother wraps her arms around her.
An infection the doctors say. A punishment she says and her mother glares at her.
“He wouldn’t punish you,” she says, kissing the girls forehead. “Not you.”
…
The breakdown comes 3 months later. The wracking full body sobs, the why me anger.
The all consuming guilt.
“I’m so sorry,” she sobs into her pillow, her mother muttering calming words down the phone.
…
A year later she still struggles with the decision she made, still struggles with guilt. Tears still come when she’s least expecting it. She masks them with bitter black humour most of the time.
It was the hardest decision she ever had to make, but she made it for the best reasons.
And she’s still struggling on.
Written for therealljidol
“’I like you but not enough to see you exclusively.’ Dick,” she laughs bitterly, lifts her head from her friends shoulders and locks her phone. “He wasn’t even good looking enough to be that much of a dick.” Her friend splutters on her cigarette.
“I’m sorry darling.” She pats the girls knee.
The girl shrugs and throws her cigarette on the floor. She stands and jumps down the step, landing on the cigarette and spinning back to her friend to stub it out. “Back to work.”
“Come for a drink tonight?”
“Maybe.”
…
It’s not him that causes the tears that night, sitting cross-legged on her sofa with a bowl of mac and cheese in front of her and a glass of wine to her left. It’s not him, but what he possibly stood for. The potentially mended heart from last years break, the comfort of having someone at the end of a phone or to give a hug to after a bad day. It’s not him.
…
Her hands shake as she glares at the cross on the test. No, this can’t be happening. Not to me.
“And?” Her sister says looking over her shoulder whilst stirring the dhal.
“Fuck,” is all she answers and her sister drops the wooden spoon with a clatter and pulls her into a hug. She’s younger, her sister, by 7 years but at that moment she feels like the younger one. She clings to her sister and lets out a half sob, half hysterical laugh into her shoulder. “Fuck.” She repeats.
“What are we going to do?” Her sister asks and she’s never wanted to stick her head in the sand so much as she does right now. She doesn’t miss the “we” through from her sister and grips her hand across the table.
“Call mum.”
…
Her mother and her have always been close, some people think it’s weird how closer her and her entire family are but she wouldn’t have it any other way. They are her best friends. She can practically feel the hug down the phone and lets out the tears that she’s been holding on to the second she hears her mothers voice.
“I’m so sorry,” she sobs and wishes beyond anything that her mother was here right now, not half way across the world. “I’m on the pill mum, I swear.”
“Don’t apologise babe,” her mother’s voice has softened since the tears started.
“Oh God, mum I can’t do this, not on my own.”
“You’re not on your own.”
…
“Mum there’s something wrong,” she says, clutching her stomach. She’s been awake since 5 am, stabbing pains in her low abdomen, feeling the sick pit of guilt in her stomach. The guilt at the hope that maybe there really was something wrong. Maybe the decision is being taken out of her hands.
Her mother covers her hands with her own. “Call the doctor.”
…
“It’s normal,” the doctor says, her face a mixture of emotions as she looks at the young woman who clearly doesn’t want this to be happening to her. The young woman who wont even look at the monitor. The doctor is used to allaying fears of happy expectant mothers not breaking the bad news that everything is ok.
“Thank you.” She says because her mother bought her up well and that’s what you say, even when you don’t really mean it.
…
“I can’t do this mama,” she resorts to the childish name she called her mother in the car. Her mothers hand lands on her knee from the front seat, her father’s driving, gazed pointedly fixed forward.
“I know.” Her mother replies, squeezing her fingers.
“I don’t want you to hate me.” She says, silent tears rolling down her face. She draws absent circles on the window, and thinks about her mothers Catholic upbringing.
“I never would,” her mother says. “Never.”
…
The phone gripped in her hand, the girl holds it to her ear and brushes away a tear that falls. The voice of the counsellor in her ear is asking her how she feels about the decision she’s making.
“I’m being so selfish,” she says down the phone and the counsellor stays silent. “But am I?” She’s desperate for someone to tell her this is ok, that this is the right decision for her and to be selfish would be to stick to her own upbringing and have this life that is looming on the horizon for her. Selfish because it’s not what she wants, and would she resent it years down the line, would she regret it, this uphill struggle? The stigma?
“You’re talking to me,” the counsellor says, “that proves that this isn’t an easy decision for you. That, by definition, makes it unselfish."
She thinks back to her older sisters excited face when she told her, and chokes back a sob. She sitting in her car outside her office and has 10 minutes left to pull herself together before she has to walk back in.
“How can I justify this decision with my old beliefs?” She asks.
“Do you have friends and family behind you?” The counsellor asks.
She nods before she can speak, “yes...I’m lucky with that.”
“If they still love you and are with you, then you will have to find the justification in yourself.”
…
Her mother drives her, their fingers linked on the gear stick the whole way. Her mother is quiet but she knows why. She feels sick with guilt, the internal struggle, battle, is still waging inside her. Is this right? Is this ok? Do I go through with this? You can’t do this alone, a voice inside her says. You can, but do you want to? Another voice asks.
The clinic is clean, tidy and quiet. The women greet her with sympathetic smiles and gentle hands on shoulders leading her down corridors away from the safety of her mum. At 31 she still needs her mum right now.
“She can come with you,” one of the women says and goes off to retrieve her mother. Her mothers hand finds her own and she breathes again, swallowing back tears. She’s so tired of crying.
…
The nurse scans her belly and her mother locks eyes with her, not wanting to see the screen either.
“I’m so sorry,” she mouths at her mother and her mother’s eyes read loud and clear with I will ALWAYS love you, no matter what.
…
It’s over before she knows it and she relishes in the pain, hugs herself in the car and wishes the pain would stay until she can forgive herself.
Her sister pushes a cup of tea into her hand and her mother sends her off to bed. She cries herself to sleep.
…
Two days later and the pain is too much. She can’t talk to the dispatcher on the phone. Her parents drive her to hospital again and she sits clutching a hot water bottle as her mother wraps her arms around her.
An infection the doctors say. A punishment she says and her mother glares at her.
“He wouldn’t punish you,” she says, kissing the girls forehead. “Not you.”
…
The breakdown comes 3 months later. The wracking full body sobs, the why me anger.
The all consuming guilt.
“I’m so sorry,” she sobs into her pillow, her mother muttering calming words down the phone.
…
A year later she still struggles with the decision she made, still struggles with guilt. Tears still come when she’s least expecting it. She masks them with bitter black humour most of the time.
It was the hardest decision she ever had to make, but she made it for the best reasons.
And she’s still struggling on.
Written for therealljidol