Killing me softly
She woke up one morning with an urgency to become more involved in her daughter’s lives. I call it women’s intuition – she doesn’t question it or call it anything at all. That very day she signed on for Girl Scout and PTO duty, in addition to the Sunday school class she taught two days a week, and has been stretching herself thin ever since. The feeling of urgency replaced with overwhelming exhaustion – and still she’s no closer to her girl’s than she was before, but at least she can say she’s involved.
People at work noticed a change within a few weeks, as she was sickly pale, had no energy and suffered extreme mood swings, which was not at all like her. After a few months of this routine, she started becoming sick with what she believed to be allergies, but still refused to take time off work to see a doctor – until the day she woke with sores on the back of her throat and her lips swollen with what she believed were cold sores. The doctor gave her a z-pack of antibiotic and sent her on her way – she returned to work the next day, to the horror of her co-workers, who begged her to take some time off to heal herself – but she was having none of it.
Feeling physically spent as time wore on, she somehow adjusted to her ailments and forged ahead, refusing to let anything stop her or slow her down. A few more months and it would be summer, school would be out and then she’d take a break, she kept telling herself. But something else was bothering her that wasn’t so easy to shake – something unidentifiable and somewhat familiar constantly gnawing at the back of her mind – driving her on when she hadn’t the energy to drive herself, not knowing what or why.
If she opened herself, looked deep inside, she would recognize that gnawing from her own childhood, brought on by a repressed memory of her father and his late night visits to her and her sister’s room – the look in the eyes of her own daughters, mirroring that of hers, if she’d only find the strength to see.
And while clarity loomed on the horizon, her husband feared what was happening and knew if it came down to a choice, that it would be her that had to go, so that he could continue the life he’d built in secret with his girls.
“Honey, you look exhausted,” he said as he stood in the doorway and watched her fumble with the coffee filter. He walked across the room and took it from her. “Here, let me do that, you go on and take a shower.” She looked up at him and forced a smile, not having the courage or strength to tell him she hated his bitter coffee, but thankful that he’d offered to take over this simple task, which meant she had a few extra minutes to stand in the hot shower and try to wake up.
He watched as she shuffled her feet across the floor and disappeared down the hall, and then he reached into the pocket of his jeans and withdrew the vial, added a few drops in the bottom of the pot and flipped on the switch to brew.
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