My best friend pt. 1

I recently had a baby.

I guess, that makes me a mom. It happened so suddenly. I can’t really say that I like it. It just, happened.

Most days I feel lonely. Sometimes I feel desperate. I hate my greasy hair, I’ve pulled it back to keep it out of my face. I’m afraid to see myself in the mirror. Since when did I start looking like this?

I think about my best friend, hoping to find some comfort, perhaps a gentle reminder of the woman I used to be. I haven’t talked to her in what feels like ages. It’s been a few weeks, maybe.

She’s my best friend from high school. We shared heartbreaks together. She was there when my parents split, and I was there when her boyfriend broke up with her. I remember that day, both of us sitting on her washroom floor, her hand in mine as we stared at a pregnancy stick. We prayed so hard for her then, for forgiveness and a do-over, for that second line to not appear.

I message her and eagerly wait for the blue checkmarks. And then the ellipsis appears, flashing. In a split second, I think about my hair. Maybe today will be the day I wash it finally.

We small talk in short messages. And finally she tells me, she’s been struggling to conceive.

“I’m so happy for you, though,” she writes.

Feeling sorry and heartbroken, I want to hold her, I want to call. But my body stays still, holding my phone, staring at the message, desperate to show compassion, desperate to run away from the discomfort. The moment feels thick.

Before her last message, I wanted to tell her everything. How I’ve been crying everyday, how my nipples hurt, and how embarrassed I feel about the little breastmilk that I have. I wanted to tell her how I locked myself in my room when I couldn’t stand the crying anymore. I wanted to tell her that I screamed at my mother-in-law. I wanted to tell her that I hate my husband. I wanted to tell her that I regret this whole motherhood thing. I wanted to tell her, I don’t recognize myself anymore.

But I can’t. Not now. Maybe, not ever.

I swallow hard and hold my breath until the pain turns into tears and roll down my face and quietly drip off my chin, only to be absorbed back into my greasy hair.