abortion ther-rapists.
2003-02-03, 8:51 p.m.
Mental illness, i've decided, is much like an unwanted pregnancy... There is something growing there... down inside. just past where you can't quite reach. seething and teeming and threatening to overtake... it makes you sick. it crushes your brain with suicidal headaches. you stop bathing. forget to leave the house.
and you do everything you can to get it out... without spending the money... and you try. so fucking hard... you try to cut it out with the commodities you find in the kitchen drawers... serrated. razor. switch. butterfly. anything that makes a straight line... you try to vomit it out with the pretty pills they keep prescribing... never quite sure of the correct concoction of crown and cocaine... it's little orange prescription bottles that are never quite full enough... trying to one-up the brightly-colored liquor bottles... that would work much quicker if you had the nerve to crunch. and swallow. the glass.
and suddenly you realize... that nothing you do... will make your determined fetus go. the fuck. away. you know you will have to go to someone sometime soon. The ther-rapist. The abortion doc. they blend and meld into one and the same.
so which do you choose...? the $50 per 15 minute one... that will most likely do the trick... scrape your uterus. scrape your brain. shove you back into some walking/talking replica of your former self... the one you can't go to because you don't have insurance... the one... with the handlebar mustache and the too-tight tweed suits... the one that doesn't give a fuck whether you... or the baby... makes it or not... just that he gets his money... and you get the fuck out...
or... perhaps... the $50 per hour one... with her Farah Fawcett hair and purple dance shoes... a piece of paper claiming her proclivity for psychiatry... she'll rape you with a scalpal... proclaim you... cured... but you go home... and still die... from the fucking infection.
or do you deal with it... at home... alone... sitting in the dark... trying to cut it out yourself? realizing it will probably kill you anyway.
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