300 words a day entry eleven Good day
They can’t all be good days, mostly not. I tell myself it’s a good day if the first thought I don’t think isn’t about you, so this morning when I woke up sick and having those fever type dreams that make me shake and anxious, the ones that replay and take a chord from deep inside, covered in blood chunks and sinew and muscle memory, and I find my way through the darkened attic bedroom all angles and shadows, and memorized like the lines on your forehead and slide down the stairs in my bare feet, underwear and tank top and grope into the bathroom still convinced I only have to pee and pushing off the inevitable and trembling in the darkness and chill of the early autumn air that has crept in through the windows, wishing I weren’t alone and then I think of what chemotherapy would be like alone and how I hate to be alone when I’m sick and finding a hair tie to pull my own hair back and hating how alone it feels to pull my own hair back and wondering if I should give in to letting that other man be my boyfriend because he’s convincing me and I am sick. And then I realize my thought of chemo came minutes after I had been awake, had been a thought I didn’t think until I thought a bunch of other ones and even as I force my finger down my throat, and even though it’s only 3 a.m. barely October 6, with October 5 still lingering, I know it’s going to be a good day. I tell myself it’s going to be a good day.