Shane
Guilt.
That's all I've felt.
I feel guilty for letting Felicity go to sleep.
I feel guilty for even thinking about her dying.
I feel guilty for thinking about getting rid of the kids if she did die.
I feel guilty for planning what I was going to do if she did die.
I feel guilty because every single time she shuts her eyes, I panic.
I feel guilty for asking the nurse to wake her up every hour in the night.
I feel guilty because now that she's waking in the night to feed the baby, she's hardly getting any sleep.
I feel guilty for getting annoyed when she has to go to the bathroom, because I'm terrified if she leaves the bed, she's going to collapse. Or start bleeding again.
I feel guilty for following her to the bathroom and anywhere else she has to go.
I don't know what to do. I love her so much. The thought of lightening up terrifies me. I want to lock her in a room with a fluffy blanket that had holes in it, just in case she gets trapped under the blanket and can't breathe.
I want to give her the best soft food I can find, something she can't choke on.
I want to entrap her and keep her safe from the world. I don't want her getting in the car. I don't want her going to the bathroom. I don't want her doing anything.
I know she can tell. She knows me. She knows that I'm not okay. All our family still hangs around, staying at the penthouse.
It's been four days.
I'm depressed. I have anxiety.
I panic every time she does one thing. I keep having flashbacks of her laying there motionless on the couch.
The blood.
There was so much blood.
Odette is asleep in her crib and Owen is here with our family, but he's been staying with them so I can stay with her in the hospital.
I haven't showered since it happened. It carried into the next day, so that was two days there, and then another four days.
So it's been six days.
The doctor isn't even thinking about discharging her for another three days.
Every time I think about her leaving the hospital, I want to throw up.
I'm scaring even myself. I feel like I'm going to do something insane, like choke somebody that grabs her arm wrong.
I need to talk about it.
The problem is, the person I always go to with all my problems is Felicity.
But what happens if I tell her I'm insane and she gets anxious and her blood pressure goes up and it messes with the stitches and they break and she starts gushing blood again?
No. I can't talk to Felicity about it.
I shake my head, looking down at my phone.
Felicity is drawing in a coloring book. She's bored out of her mind.
I'm quiet all the time, and I keep catching her watching me.
She knows.
I'm not used to this unfamiliar feeling of constant terror.
