A medicine to treat heartburn
This stuff really works. The cashier at David’s Pharmacy who isn’t named David says, bagging my Pepto Bismol chewable tablets and handing me a receipt longer than any relationship I’ve ever been in.
He doesn’t have to tell me— I know. I’ve been chewing it like people chew gum.
I started keeping Pepto Bismol in my pockets again. They stain my coats and the inside of my purses with a chalky pink hue. The ones left behind, at least, crushed into 6 pieces. The other ones I’ve already forced myself to swallow, washing them down with my ex-boyfriend’s tea and the seltzer water he promised me will help. We grow comfortable blaming my nausea on the alcohol (I only had two drinks), on the dairy (I never had a problem with it before), and we pretend the searing headaches are normal. We pretended far too often. We pretended far too long.
I ask him to look away and play Thunder Road at full volume when I purge my anxiety into the toilet, the trash can in the parking lot, in his apartment and then in mine. We’re worried about me but don’t dare discuss what resigns my body to sickness, no we won’t go there yet.
Months later I’ll purge him from me in what I hope is the last time. I gargle with Listerine and pull the crushed Pepto from my pockets, the ones he taught me to keep nearby. It’s still good, not expired yet. Just the year before, I gripped toilet seats and rested my shins on the cold tile floor. I could hide from my mind but my body refused not to let her pain be known.
When I read my journal now, I want to hold the girl who kept her pain to the page and never dared share it aloud. I tell him You want so badly to be my villain so here, go on. You are. My friends tells me to write a letter and never send it, but they don’t know I have entire journals dedicated to his name alone. Writing it is not enough, or at least, it isn’t anymore. I wanted him to feel the hurt he caused me. For once in my Goddamn life, I elect to ignore the fall-out. The dust will settle and the aftermath is no longer mine to carry. Someone else will have to pick up the pieces, this time I get to be the one to leave a disaster in my wake.
I still chew Pepto Bismol like candy but I’m smiling instead. Like my mother does, I let my rage be known. Like my grandmother refused to allow me to, I leave my bed unmade.