saturday scaries

I have a case of the Saturday scaries.

Saturday, December 31st — when I first begin to feel really sick.

Saturday, January 7th — I cry in my bed in pain.

Saturday, January 14th — my first discharge from hospital. I would only get sicker.

Saturday, January 21st — The worst pain I’ve ever experienced. I would re-enter hospital the next day.

Every Saturday after that, I became terrified that I would begin gulping sickness.

A day of the week synonymous with fun and relief, and I could never catch a break. Each twinge in my body sent off warning signs. I prayed to whoever would listen that I would be okay. I went into my dad in the middle of the night for comfort.

I stopped making weekend plans and sat in my room with my ear up to the ticking clock, waiting for the bomb to go off. But more often than not, it never did. I spent so much of my time fearing that other people saw me as a sick person, that I forgot I could see myself that way too — and I did. I let it consume me. When my brain was becoming numb, struggling to comprehend all that preceded me, I nursed the pain as to feel anything at all.

I think I’ve been worried that if I don’t remember I was sick, everyone else would forget too and I would slip into the abyss. But I’m slowly learning that, famously, isn’t how memory works. I deserve to grow.

Yesterday was Saturday and I saw my friends and my head hurt, but I wasn’t afraid anymore.