The bathroom floor is my home tonight. I’m pale, shaking, and too weak to stand. My stomach won’t stop turning. I’ve been vomiting for hours, and I’m certain it’s the stress. The kids are at the kitchen table, quietly eating dinner. I can hear them, but I can’t reach them. I’m curled up on the cold wood floor, wishing I could disappear, praying for something, anything, to make it stop. I don’t know if I’m asking God to save me or to end it all. Maybe both. I just want the pain to go. I want the silence back. I want to feel okay again. But for now, all I can do is lie here and hope it passes, even if I’m not sure I want it to.

I need to go to the hospital. My head is spinning. My lips are dry. The floor is cold against my skin, but it’s familiar. Familiar in the way loneliness is.

I called my old church group. They told me to pray. Told me to cast my burdens. Told me to have faith. Then they hung up. Left me lying on the wood, cold, scared, forgotten.

I’m all alone in Iowa. Just me and the boys. This isn’t the life I imagined. It isn’t the one I wanted. But this is what you left me with. Chaos and silence. Vomit and prayer. The echo of your cruelty bouncing around in an empty house.

You were supposed to be here. You were supposed to help. Instead, I called the only person I knew who would come. And it sure as shit wasn’t you.

Two liters of fluid later, the doctor said I was dehydrated. Told me I needed food. Told me I needed rest. But I still can’t eat. I can’t even look at food without hearing your voice. The scale feels like a judge. The number feels like a sentence. And in my mind, you are still there, whispering through the numbers.

Fat.

Disgusting.

Lazy.

And even now, in your absence, my disorder answers to your voice. It thrives in your echo. It sharpens every word you ever spat at me and calls it memory.

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Echoes