My week in the hospital had me in awe, stunned and a little shocked. As I sat in group therapy with women my color, my age, my attitude and my situation we had too much in common. It was like I was looking at myself in the mirror. The only difference were our features. We all had one goal set in mind that didn't come into fruition. I guessed that God had a plan for us all and he definitely weren't through with us yet. During a card game of spades, in between sips of water, decaf weak coffee and low calorie unsweetend Kool-Aid we vented to one another. We told each other things we didn't tell our counselor. Things we didn't dare mention out loud in the middle of group.
How we still felt the knife in our back and our hearts that the very ones that birthed us, helped produce us, that we loved on, took care of, and that was suppose to love us back had plunged into us. We lashed out, tried to snatch the knife out but all that was removed was the handle. The blade would not budge. Sick and tired of the pain, the anguish, the turmoil, and the continuous abuse we each in our own way decided to end the hurt the best way we knew how. Well that didn't work because now each of our asses were sitting at a table, with no discharge date, playing spades, watching Basketball Wives in the community room of the hospital, exchanging war stories. Although our complexions were several shades different from one another; chocolate, butterscotch, caramel, vanilla, we all had the same ashen look. The look you get when you're not getting enough vitamin D from sunlight.
We were all getting catty and agitated with the nurses because we were catching cabin fever and we were sick and tired of looking at them and eating the same food day after day. Tired of their condescending remarks when they took our vitals. Tired of sitting in eight groups per day. Tired of not having access to our cell phones. Tired of waiting to use the one office phone sitting on the wall while somebody cupcaked on the phone. "Phone Whore" was whispered out of the mouth of one my "peers". I giggled.
Each day I grew closer to my female peers because although I didn't know them, they understood me. I fetched paper towels and lended a shoulder, we all empathized with one another, we cursed and vented about what drove over the edge until we ran out of curse words. And penis. We laughed and talked about penis. How we pretty much could live without that cursed body part for the rest of our days. I mean, hell...Penis is what drives every woman crazy as all hell. Even if it wasn't totally involved in all of our situations, it had a teeny weeny part in it. We all laughed and swore to not touching penis for months. Every last one of us confessed to having a broken heart.
Hell, wasn't it penis that penetrated the wrong woman and got her pregnant and put us in this world sticking us with a poor excuse for a mother? Yeah. We swore off penis for a few months that day, playing spades. Being in the hospital was our wake up call. We vowed to each other to make a change, a change for the better because nobody was going to ever bring us to that dark hole again.
As the days passed by we laughed, joked, flirted with the male nurses. It was all in fun. We bonded.
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