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Rain or shine, Finsbury Park is a nice place. I guess. Oh, and I'm halfway through Prozac Nation :-)
Suddenly my problems seemed to have a physical cause, and I was more satisfied with somatic explanations than the usual psychic ones. [...]
I had become so good at saying, glibly, Don't give me a hard time, I've just had a miscarriage, that I almost forgot that it was the truth. I felt like hell. I was physically drained and emotionally empty, and according to my accounting, I didn't think I'd be able to get away with using the I-was-pregnant-and-didn't-know-it-until excuse for very much longer. [...]
"But a lot of people have hard childhoods," I continued, "much harder than mine, and they grow up and get on with it."
"A lot of them don't."
"I dont care about the ones who don't. I think I should be among those who do. I've been so lucky in so many ways, had so many compensations-" It made me sick listening to myself. How many times and to how many therapists had I made this speech? When would I stop wondering what right -what nerve- I had to be depressed? Enough with this going on about all my blessings. I was starting to sound like a character in a TV movie with a title like The Best Little Girl in the World or Most Likely to Succeed "I don't know. The only good thing about this miscarriage is it's given me a reason to feel lousy."
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