"I just forgot. I keep them in my makeup kit, and there were three slobby days in a row so I’d blown that month. Then when it came time to start another month I… I just forgot." I’m staring at the floor and I’m not sure why.
"Do you know what this is?" asks my doctor. "Subconscious self-sabotage. Please do not do this."
She presses a prescription into my hand and I say, "Oh, no, I have more pills at home. It’s okay."
"I’m giving you this to make doubly sure," she says, and then without speaking I am sending you to the pharmacy with a police escort and porcupine-quill panties and a sandwich board hung around your neck which reads DO NOT IMPREGNATE ME: I AM EMOTIONALLY UNSTABLE.
"This is not the time," she says gently, and I mumble denial that I’d even consider it. "We need to let your body heal, and everything else too."
The thing that crouches in the dark place urges pregnancy as punishment. Another attempted gateway for a soul who tried to come through to us. Redemption. Now. Now. Now. Thankfully my dark thing is chained to the wall. It clatters around but is not set loose to wreak havoc. She’s right. Such a monumentous decision shouldn’t be triggered because the universe dared to screw with me, damaged goods trying to prove otherwise. Not triggered from a place of post-trauma but of peace, if ever.