by the time i decided to ween myself off prozac i was having deja vu once, if not twice or more, each and every day. the repetition of that eerie been there feel bored so often it lost all mystique.
with each fleeting moment of pause: to grasp for frame of reference, was this a dream? was this before? builds until the pattern of occurrence holds more relevance than the memory. false memory. false past.
foggy nights indoors. that huge drafty house that creaked with ghosts. he was two and never stayed up past ten then. keeping the t.v. on in every room i tricked myself into feeling surrounded by the real world while i lived in my head. i would shuffle into his room and stand over his sleeping sound. i would check to make sure he was breathing. i could not handle his leaving and keeping him alive was more important than cultivating his life. as a mother, all i could shoulder were the basics.
his childhood should have been sacred. it was my duty to mark the stepping stones. rungs on a ladder. pencil marks on a door frame. i muddled every milestone. i can’t separate what smile he gave me, young and pliable, from the many screams the many many desperate cries. i wonder if i really said ‘i love you so incredibly much’ as often as i thought the words - or if i only held you close in dreams. in sleep in wake in between. the lines are fuzz.
i had lied through my teeth when the doctor asked how much i drank each day. i had nodded knowingly when he mentioned liver damage and stomach ulcers. what could be worse than seeing your son die multiple times in a day? how could i know that my mind had such powers of premonition, that i could picture so many scenarios. car accident. gunshot. lightening strike. all involving blood, gushing from his tiny button nose, from his baby ears, sometimes a seizure, sometimes he’d cry out and say, momma help me. i couldn’t bare the thought and yet i could hear it. excruciatingly. happening every goddamn day.
and now he’s not so little. now he comforts himself with junk food and television and i let him. as a mother all i can shoulder are the basics. his lethargy, his apathy, his total disenchantment i can't bare to accept my fault. i tell myself this must be a phase before finding his true grown self, i shudder. i remember a time tousling his baby blonde hair in sunshine and his abandoned laughter, something with rainbow swirled bubbles rising above our happy faces. i wonder if it was a dream. i can’t name the place or time. it’s been four years since i woke each morning to drop that white and blue pill down the back of my throat. still no gag reflex. still no definitive line between reality and the world in my head. living an uninspired memory. leaving a unreflected life. cat’s in the cradle and i can’t remember the next line. hell, i can’t even remember why we were singing.