I leave in a couple days. I have been bleeding for the better part of a month. My lips are gray.

Mark goes into hospice this week. So does my grandmother. That is all I know about either situation, my sister informing me only to warn me to refer all issues to her, such as The Girl’s potentially wanting to fly there, etc., until I get back. “Don’t even leave the number with anyone, I could find you if I needed to, and I won’t.” I don’t talk to my mother, who is standing next to her during the call, I can hear her whimpering. My sister’s voice breaks. They are both just heartbroken for the baby lost. Everyone wanted that baby and it feels like the loss of the joy of it grows as other losses mount. (I think: I should have named her Joy. The next name I give will be Joy.)

Aa keeps me close, constant wrapping around me, can’t wait to get me to where the universe can hopefully stop finding me. To him, the world itself is like an exlover of mine, some kind of threat to my wellbeing ft. who is trying to get into my pants. He encircles me, growly. He would put me in a witness protection program if that’d keep God from knowing where I am. Yesterday he went to yoga with me, he’d rather be with me at all times possible and I prefer it as well (plus I very selfishly wanted him to know how hard I've been working to get better), so he whose idea of exercise is over work ala mainlining coffee and chain smoking bought a pair of shorts at Target on the way to the studio...  Halfway through the practice, he is filled with rage, overcome by it and feels like he is having a heart attack, wants to choke the teacher to death, sweat dripping into his eyes and he glares at her (hugely pregnant and not breaking a sweat at all) and at me (“It was good workout," he says gamely, "now that I can breathe again, but at the time I was thinking YOU ARE FUCKING MENTAL FOR DOING THIS”) and I’m aware of his distress and aware of the woman next to me, who just so happens to be one of our midwives. Later there is a voicemail from those midwives, asking if I’m okay, doubting it I can hear in her voice.

Numb, I can’t muster any profundity whatsoever about any of it. If any of this is a sign system, I can’t read it. I just hurt all over so no pain is registering as particular, dread throughout me like deep tissue bruising. And I don’t pray for that to stop either. I don’t trust myself to know what would be “good” or “bad” to occur, so I’m afraid to pray. In my head, I sew curtains of beautiful lime green crewel, I have no idea why (maybe it’s some kinda spell).