Between Octobers

August 6th

August 6th 

The months were slow and redundant and I found myself feeling lonelier than ever. The morning sickness was not so much sickness as complete lethargy. It took ten times the effort to go through the motions.

According to Fame Tracker, Evan really did check into rehab and left after thirty days. He'd been keeping a low profile since. Translation: no one knew where he was. He'd left his cell phone on the couch in Marcus' place and never came back. And he'd had his number changed at least twice since then.

I figured he was hoping I'd take the hint and stop calling. So I did. Well, sort of. To help combat the need to call him, I began writing to him. Every mundane detail. Just to share with him, like we were still together. I got up and dragged through my routine so I could write to him about it. And I could pretend I was going to send him my letters, and that he looked forward to reading them. My guess was I'd written about a hundred different letters. Not all of it was the deep, we-need-to-have-this-talk talk. Some I wrote just because I missed being able to pick up the phone and hear his voice. I missed feeling the weight of him in the bed beside me, waking up cold because he was a blanket hog. I missed laughing with him during our late-night talks that always ended with us making love. I missed his lips on me and his hands in my hair while Pink Floyd played on in the background.

I made a mental note to mention that in my next letter.

My hands were swollen as I opened the refrigerator for some water and spotted the Kool-Aid. Suddenly, I had to have it. I shouldn't . . . but my mouth watered, imagining the sweet and tangy fruit flavor. I gave in to temptation and poured a tall glass.

Chugging the last drops, my enjoyment was short-lived. The intense need to purge overtook me and I dove for the sink, giving back everything.

The prospect of going through this whole matter alone was beyond depressing and I had no one to blame but myself. I sighed and rinsed my mouth. The bout of emesis had soiled what little appetite I had. These days, I could hardly keep anything down before noon. I should have been well past the nausea and swollen hands by now, but they were still going strong. My favorite foods disgusted me. I used to love toast slathered in peanut butter for breakfast after a run. My stomach rolled with the thought. Even the slightest whiff of peanut anything caused instant nausea.

It was the first day of my twenty-sixth week. Start of my third trimester. It was also my birthday. I'd be twenty-five. Again.

I'd been doing my best to keep up with the demands of everyday life, but my body was under the impression was I done. More and more lately, I found myself feeling completely run down. 

Unable to find the will to get on the treadmill, I headed straight to the shower. As I washed my swollen abdomen, I wondered what Evan was doing. Considering it was before eight, a safe bet was sleeping. I smiled to myself, remembering the way he looked in the morning. His out-of-control hair sticking up in every direction, accented by red lines on the side of his face—trace marks of the wrinkled pillow case, noticeable long after he woke. 

Change had always been a task for me. Not when I initiated it—on those rare occasions, the transition was easy—but times like these, when I felt forced into something, I required a long, laborious adjustment period and sometimes a lengthy pity-party.

I'd noticed an inconsistency—not just in relation to my thoughts versus actions and the hypocrisy there—but I never thought about things the way normal people did. For me, there was no analyzing. I simply reacted and then had to deal with the consequences.