Lie.
Lie.
I send it anyway.
Then I turn the phone face down on the couch.
For five seconds, I feel almost in control.
Then it buzzes again.
I do not touch it.
I cannot.
Instead, I stand and walk toward the bathroom.
My feet stop at the doorway.
The test is still there.
Hidden, but not gone.
I step inside and move the basket.
Yup, still two lines.
I sit down on the closed toilet lid and stare at it.
“What am I going to do?” I whisper.
No one answers.
Because the only person who would have an answer is the one person I cannot ask.
I sit there until the silence starts to feel worse than the fear.
There are two lines staring back at me. I need to see a doctor, yes. But the test knows it, the two in the trash know it, and sodoes my body. I don’t think a doctor is going to tell me any different.
It’s about time I did something about it.
I can’t keep sitting here and staring at it because I am going to lose whatever small grip I have left.
And the fact is, this is not who I am.
I stand, take the test off the counter, and put it in the drawer beneath the sink.
I wash my hands.
This isn’t me. I’m not the moping type.
I’m the get-shit-done type. The time for moping and wallowing is over.
I go back to the couch, pick up my laptop, and pull it onto my lap.
My phone is still face down beside me.
I do not look.
