I’m sorry if I worried anyone; my husband and my parents know about my suicidal ideations. I forget that it can worry people to hear this—this is especially stupid considering that when telling my loved ones, I could hear them starting to worry again. However, there is a plan in place to prevent this grim turn of events from ending up in the hospital. I have some brand new prescriptions to take, and while my feelings about antidepressants are mixed at best, I do on some level understand that my brain chemicals need adjustment. I was shocked and upset when I realized that I had gotten to this point, but in the couple of weeks since, I’ve sort of gotten used to seeing myself cutting my throat when I close my eyes. It is not pleasant, but it’s not horrifying anymore.
Mr. Book and I had a longish conversation about the adoption and what we want over the weekend, via gchat (since we were separated). It turns out that we’re both feeling nostalgic for the time before the adoption (and worrying about what the adoption is and will be).
Me: I started to get upset when we toured the campus [where my father works]. I thought, this is so beautiful, and I remember when I was here with Ruth and Nora, and now I can never live here again because we can’t go that far away from the kid. Maybe if they close the adoption we can come back to California.
Mr. Book: I’ve been watching The West Wing in your absence. it takes me back to the time of your pregnancy when I was in California with you and terrified, but the kid was still basically ours and things felt generally ok because my family hadn’t yet decided I was shallow and irresponsible and Ruth and Nora were still for me abstractions. Also, I punished myself yesterday by watching the grimmest, bleakest film I’ve ever seen, about a Vietnam vet who can’t support his wife and kid. It a grindhouse no-budgeter from the ’80s and is brilliant and unbearably bleak. You’ll just hurt yourself watching it. I had to take a bath afterwards, just to feel less, I don’t know, alone? empty? something. Nice bath, at least.
Often, when talking to each other, we just call Cricket “the kid”; it seems easier, sometimes, not to have to say his name. It was a long conversation that involved wondering what Ruth and Nora most want, wondering whether what Cricket wants will be a factor for them in the years ahead, and wondering what we do now. I think we maintain vague, friendly contact and don’t mention visits, pictures, or what I’m going through at the moment. And…we wait.