Most of Me Read Online Free Page A

disconcerting thing: my left arm is not swinging while I walk. Instead, it remains fixed in place, stuck magnetically by my side. Suddenly I feel rigid and robotic and idiotic. How long has this been going on? Why have I never noticed this before? And why is it happening?
    These questions spawn more questions: Why am I still so depressed? Why am I so tired all the time? Why am I not getting any better? Am I paranoid, or am I getting worse? My search for answers is short-lived. By early September, I hit rock bottom.
    MY CRASH is silent and solitary. I land on the living room floor—an incoherent clump, clinging to the yoga mat, in a downward dead dog pose. The crushing weight of gravity makes it difficult to breath. And my limbs feel heavy and cold and useless. Somehow, I am sinking into a deep, dark hole, and I don’t know why.
    Bergen comes to my rescue, calm and unflinching, kneeling by my side: a heroic handyman with his tenderhearted toolkit, inspecting his broken wife. He wades through my silence and pries open my pain. I drift to the surface, hysterical.
    â€œI need help,” I cry. “Something is wrong . . . I don’t know what . . . but I feel like I’m dying . . . like I want to die . . . I don’t know what to do.”
    â€œI’ll help you,” he assures me. “I’ll do anything for you. I’m right here. We’ll figure this out together.”
    He gently lifts me to my feet, and we sit down on the couch. My body is shaking, my teeth chattering, my heart pounding away. I need warmth—he brings me tea and blankets. I need peace and quiet—he walks on eggshells and coaxes Naomi and her friends to do the same. I need mindless distraction—he installs me in the TV room, where I lie lifeless on the couch, like a heap of wood for a funeral pyre. I need doctors—he takes me to appointments where I’m told I need a lot of other things too: antidepressants, sleeping pills, medical diagnostic tests, appointments with specialists, specialists with ointments.
    Only a few people know that something is terribly wrong. Of course, Bergen and Naomi do—they’re stuck in front-row seats at this horror show, every single day. There’s also my G.P., Dr. Mintz, and my therapist, Theresa. And finally, my Toronto Trio: Ruthie, Bonnie, and Sweet Lisa. They call every day to talk to me, but because my Cry Lady is rude and unruly—always erupting into tears, interrupting conversations—I hardly get a word in edgewise. Fortunately, my friends are fluent in melancholy, so my sniffles and snorts make sense. They know this is no ordinary case of the blues. Whatever is bringing me down is serious and dangerous. I let their familiar voices assure me: “It’s not your fault that you’re sick.” “You’ll find out what’s wrong.” “You will feel better soon.” “See Theresa as much as possible; no matter what it costs, you’re worth it.” And with their constant love and guidance, I take each day one moment at a time—while Bergen spends almost every moment of his time taking care of me.

2
    Breaking News Is Hard to Do
    I DON’T WANT TO KILL MYSELF . I just want to be dead. Like the Lucky Ones in the obituaries. Every morning I greet them with green-eyed envy. Hello, Dearly Departed. Bonjour, Tragically Taken. Nice to meet you, Sorely Missed. Welcome, Gone But Not Forgotten. Breakfast just wouldn’t be the same without their alphabetized, memorialized faces staring out at me from the newspaper. I always appreciate their company—they’re such a breath of fresh death air.
    I feel more at ease with these dead strangers than I do with my living loved ones. Dead strangers don’t make messes or noises or demands. They don’t notice if teeth need brushing or pajamas need washing. Best of all, they are immune to misery—which is a great relief for my guilty conscience.
    I’m