I stared at the scarf in my hands. Silk. Embroidered. A soft bluish gray. I bought it in Italy a few weeks prior for a stupidly expensive sum.
He owed me. I wanted to make him pay.
I had not worn it even once but now I found myself staring at a gaping hole in the fabric. The damn thing was never as perfect as I had thought. I felt sick. Revenge shopping. It was not worth it.
I deserved that.
In medicine you see the price that is paid for bad decisions. They are paraded before you day after day. You think you are smart enough to learn from it, that it will never happen to you.
Until it does.
You realize too late, while in the ER staring at a loved one, how close you really are to tipping over that ledge yourself.
Just one more drink, right? It won’t hurt anything, he said, and I wanted to believe it. Another glass was always placed in my hand and I never, ever said no.
I liked you better after you had a glass of wine. Or two. Or three. Hell, I liked myself better, truthfully.
The perfect life, the perfect spouse, the perfect kids, the perfect house, the perfect job…. Utterly unattainable. No matter how much you want them, they simply do not exist. So much of depression is actually disappointment, not being able to accept this reality.
This is not supposed to be MY life…
All of the anger I carried around for so long? Wasted. Just like all of that money on the stupid scarf. I never told him but his fall probably saved my life, too.