Part II · Descent
Gas Stations
Oct 28th 2023
Postpartum psychosis.
Or maybe just bipolar.
I still don’t know.
"I'm just texting to let you know—
I'm going to feed B.
then sit in the garage with the car running."
That’s the message you sent
after leaving me stranded
at a gas station.
I called eight times.
Then I ran.
A mile and a half through the woods,
lungs burning, heart sprinting toward
whatever I feared more—
the silence or what I might find inside it.
The house was chaos.
Juice spilled across the floor.
The kids strapped into their boosters.
E. soaked.
You were nowhere.
I screamed your name.
You appeared,
descending the stairs in tears.
I tried to speak.
You refused.
Kept walking.
Straight to the garage.
I followed.
Begged you to go back on your meds.
You snapped.
Fury in your fists.
Just like your mother.
Slaps.
Dodging.
Ducking.
Not new, just faster.
You said it was my fault.
Again.
And I believed you.
Again.