Britney

The hospital is familiar to me not only because the room to my right is the one where my mother spent her last few days, or because the one across the wing is where I first saw her when she initially came here, but because it was in my dream this morning. I don’t want to think about the dream at all—not while I am here in the hospital, and not while I am writing this—but I do. In it, my mom died, and then strangely enough, after I screamed at the doctors to revive her, she came back to life.

It was terrifyingly realistic. I remember being excited and telling her everything that I had wanted to in real life, starting with the Mac DeMarco concert I went to and never got the chance to talk to her about. Waking up was the worst feeling in the world. It was an unexpected and all too real reminder that she couldn’t magically come back to life—that I couldn’t happily let her know all of the big and small things that have happened.

I don’t want to be in the hospital, but I am here to get her bag. The nurses can’t find it, and I feel my heart sink as they tell me to come back another day. I can’t come back here; I can’t come back to the hematology/oncology wing and stand as if I don’t remember seeing my mom in one of these rooms. The wetness at my eyelids tells me that there are tears threatening to spill out, but I am sick of crying in front of people. None of this feels real, and yet, it is. I walk out.

***

I don’t know what my future looks like anymore. I am afraid of myself—of the power that I somehow didn’t realize I hold over my own life. My lack of motivation is especially startling. I try to propel myself into new things and push myself toward new projects and people, but it always feel forced. I no longer feel a natural pull to create work and become the best person that I can be. Everything is an act. I am always afraid of failure. The prospect gnaws at me, but that dread does nothing to help me.

My guidance counselor tells me that, at this point, my life can go in one of two different directions. People constantly tell me that I will be successful. I keep this in mind, yet I feel more and more lost, like I’m traveling down the wrong road. Sometimes I fear that it will never end despite others’ encouragement, reassurance, and belief in me. For once, I am more afraid of letting myself down that I am of disappointing others. ♦