She’s a little twerky today, had an off week.
She knew she would, because Tuesday she was due for the procedure with the electric prong up her vagina.
That’s right. Electricity. In her vagina.
So, you know, it’s really no wonder she was feeling scrambley.
But even so, when the man she’s been successfully dating for six months without having to fess up to her true identity asked on Monday if she could bring him a xanax, she was already so absent that she accidentally dropped off a citalopram instead.
You know, citalopram? Her fucking anti-depressant?
And he handled it well, politely. Because despite needing xanax at 11am on a Monday morning, he’s a gorgeous man from another time and she loves him.
But still, the anti-depressant reveal came several years ahead of schedule, and it threw her.
Which, you know, she might have already been a little thrown anyway, because of the impending high-voltage to her twat, as mentioned, but also because of how a man she slept with five years ago chose the week prior to stalk her house.
Like, when she was in it. Maybe that’s implied in the word stalking?
As well as circling the house and trying all the doors and pushing chairs up against the windows and eventually just shouting, “Open your door or I’m going to call the police!”
Which she really now just desperately wish she had let him do.
But she’s so fucking suggestible that it wasn’t until much, much later that she realized the likelihood of her arrest was, in this case, relatively small.
“I would never do this to you,” she said, simply, when she opened the door.
“Oh, good for you!” he screamed, spit and the birds in the yard flying. “You’re such a good fucking person!”
It was sweet of him to say. It really was.
But despite the brave front she’s presenting−despite the delicate popping of anti-depressants and graceful hiding in the laundry room from exes—she’s actually not feeling so hot.
She’s actually feeling kind of screwed up.
So that’s kind of the climate when she goes to the clinic for her appointment to have some cells on her cervix scraped (not cool, by the way). And then it gets way worse because of all of the stupid questions she has to answer.
She’s lied to these questions so many times before she can’t believe she’s still being asked them.
“Have you ever had sex forced on you?”
“Who hasn’t?” she thinks, but answers in the negative, so that the doctor checks off the box that will keep her from having to join a support group.
“Have you ever felt afraid in your home?”
“Not since Thursday.”
The doctor looks at her in that I-have-no-idea-what-I’m-actually-looking-at way, and for a small moment she kind of hates him, without really understanding why.
But then he touches her stockinged knee and says, “Are you feeling a little nervous?” and gets the better of her. She nods excitedly.
“That’s perfectly normal,” he reassures her, then asks what type of protection she’s using during sex.
“Condoms?” she guesses.
He hesitates at his clipboard, kind of reframes the question for her.
“What percentage of the time would you say you use condoms?” he asks.
She can’t remember the last time she even saw a condom. She tries to dredge up that memory, hoping it will make her face look like she’s doing some extravagant math.
The prophylactic remembrance is not forthcoming.
“88%,” she eventually answers, then regrets it.
The doctor looks at her.
“I would say my partner wears a condom 88 percent of the time,” she says, as though using the number in a complete sentence will improve things.
And meanwhile positively hating herself.
The questions continue, and before she knows what’s happening, she’s become so forlorn that she starts feeling that sickening need to make others comfortable in her skewed presence.
Which is really hard to do considering that soon she’s naked from the waist down with her legs spread wide and her knees clamped in stirrups.
And even harder when the doctor misses her carefully-numbed cervix by a fucking mile and zaps her sweet sugar walls instead.
A sound of terror escapes as she bucks on the table and her heart shoots right out of her chest and splatters on the ceiling.
“Oh dear,” is the doctor’s response.
“Is that going to happen again?” she asks, when she regains her ability to breathe.
“I hope not.”
She bites her lower lip for a moment.
“Um. What I mean is, was that part of the procedure?”
“That? No, that was a user error.”
“Oh. Ha ha! Great!”
She closes her eyes, wonders why she hasn’t cried for over a year.
If she’s really honest, there are moments when she’s very tired.
And sometimes she’s not even sure how much human she has left.
It’s all quite a bit different than she thought it would be.
Like, most of the time she feels as though she turned out better than she expected. But limping to her car donning gauze panties like the kind Scarlett Johannson wears in the movie Lucy, she feels just the tiniest bit beat up by all of it.
“When’s dinner?” her kids ask, when she gets home.