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The doctors said it takes about 4 weeks for the meds to fully incorporate themselves into my system. Maybe that's why all I've been feeling is tired (which, ironically, was the exact same state I was in, the one that got me to this...place). Oh, the bliss of remaining in bed forever.
That was all I wanted anyway. Just to sleep.
Every day, the nurses asked about my "thoughts." If they remained the same, if they've somehow shifted from the desire to actually commit to just objectively looking at what had happened as...just that...what had happened. They kept asking me what my plans were. "Anong plano mo pag labas mo?" All the time, every day. I guess it was their way of assessing if I was stable enough to get out.
Truth is, I have no plans. Plans are being made for me.
Everybody is taking care of me, constantly asking me if I'm fine, if I'm all right. As if something magical could happen 5 minutes after being asked the same thing.
Don't get me wrong. I appreciate the concern. I do, really. It makes me think that what I tried to do was indeed stupid and selfish; that so many people would've been heartbroken. (Oh, Lucia.) But...I hate being asked how I am because bloody hell if I know how I am.
Just that. I don't know how I am. I can't seem to feel anything. (Meds?) Maybe this is good. I'm dead inside.
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Come feel with me.
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Feelings are stupid. I don't know if I ever want to feel again.
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This morning, Lucia and I played like we used to. She was so happy and I laughed at her silliness. A kind of near-hollow laugh, the kind that fooled my little one enough for her to scream with glee. And in that instant, I decided that my next tattoo would be her name. On my wrist. Only fitting.
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Oh, don't worry, I'm all right. I'm okay. (Because I know you're asking how I am.)
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