Recovery. I'm throbby. My body is throbbing. I just came out of an extensive surgery. I should feel throbby. I'm calm, though, and not feeling that much pain. Its numb pain, if that makes any sense at all. Medication is my friend. A good friend. It feels so comforting to know that I am in recovery. No more stress about the impending surgery, for starts. And no more hatred at myself, or self-consciousness. More importantly, there is no more fear. Bless you, surgery, for delivering me from that fear.
If he came here, now, I'd still hide. This lump in my stomach, a kicking reminder of why I'm still detached from the man I love, keeps me from thinking that I could ever face him. But with new breasts, better breasts, in fact, I feel as if it isn't a total impossibility to look at him face to face, one more time. I'll never try to find him, but if he found me (after this little thing is born) I wouldn't run away. I'd talk to him, and explain, and maybe try to reason it out for myself.
Cancer free. Fresh boobs. A kid whose less than a month from existing. Recovery. One more trial until I can recover for good, pick up the pieces, and start somewhere new. Because Lord fucking knows that I need to be free from Santa Fe. I love this city. My friends are wonderful. I'll miss Dijon and Rolando especially. Those little fuckers have been so nice to me. Frank and I are thinking to keep West for a new home. I'm particularly fond of the idea of Portland, but Frank is desperately trying to convince me that Alaska would suit us well. He thinks that teaching this new kid some resilience would be great for it.
I wonder if it'll be a boy or a girl. My gut tells me its a girl. I fucking hate little girls. But I love this little monster inside of me, regardless of whether its a boy or a girl or really an actual monster. I hope it never knows that its father hated it. I'm so so sure he'd hate it. If it were ever made known to him. But I'll run forever to spare him ever knowing. I hope he isn't drinking too much. I'm sure he is. Maybe at this point he's over it. I hope so. It's been so long. Eight months. I never thought I could make it this long without him. I should have taken a picture with me. It would help me in this recovery, I think, to know his face again. I can't bring myself to go onto the internet because I know I'll see his face. I've eliminated all evidence of him from my phone and I've blocked myself from his number, his mailbox, and his Facebook. I'm certain he hasn't tried to find me. I know, though, that he's been keeping tabs on my bank account. Every so often the almost impossible to drain amount of money I have in my account increases into an even less impossible amount to drain. You know how much I worried at first that the spending would put him on my trail. He hasn't been, though, which makes me feel relieved. I half wish he would try to find me, but logic reminds me that I don't actually wish for that at all. Maybe less logic and more fear. I dunno. I just wonder what his thought will be when he sees this price leave my account. The name of the facility is listed there, clearly, with Dr. Frank's name. I hate this law. Requiring me to give hints as to where I am. If he finds me from anything, it will be from this. Fuck you, government. You're gonna blow my spot and I'm gonna be PISSED. I wonder what he'll think I've been spending money on.
Shit, Eros, it feels so nice just to sit here and let my brain think. I've avoided thinking. It feels nice to be able to recover. To think it all out. The only thing that helped me was these new boobs. They are my savior. This little kid'll appreciate a mom with boobs. They feel nice, too. Well done, Frank, my friend. Well done. You've saved me.