Mini Brain Dumps

I wrote the below story back in December in the height of my prenatal depression.

This story in and of itself, I wrote after setting a boundary with one of our family members in regards to visitation after the birth of my son. Their reaction was… less than ideal. And it made me feel like no one saw me as a human anymore, like I was nothing more than a vessel to bring children into the world.

Trigger warning – This story speaks of death. Reader’s discretion is advised.

If the above is too much for you, I completely understand. Please protect your mental health, and I will see you in the next post!

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I always thought my death would be in a wreck on the highway, much like my mother’s. It makes sense, right? Poetic in a way.

But that’s not what happened.

Instead, I died strapped to a cold metal table, my abdomen ripped open.

I had told everyone that if it had to come to this to choose me, not the baby.

They chose the baby.

The silver-lining? I’m now known as the woman who gave everything to bring her son into this world. A hypocritical title for everyone that knows me. But, at least, you can’t speak ill of the dead.

I guess I’m just a self-fulfilling prophecy, even if I got the details wrong.

So, grab your pitchforks and torches. Light the pyre beneath my feet. And, as the smoke chokes the last breath from my lungs, at least I will know that I finally died for something I believed in – my own death.

And place me on the mantel, so that I may watch as the world goes by in sharp focus, the lie that is my life to be told through smiling photos of me and the tell tale stories of those that I loved.

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What are your thoughts? Let me know if the comments below!