I feel like the veil that usually muffles my tefillos has been thrown back, and it’s just me standing before Hashem
Ijust want to curl up in a ball and never leave my bed, ever. I don’t want to talk to Atara and I don’t want to talk to Ma and Daddy and I definitely don’t want to speak to peppy Goldie. I want to lie on this bed until I grow old and withered and everyone can whisper about how I used to be so talented and it’s such a shame.
I snort out loud, because it is a lot more than a shame. It’s… abominable.
“Abominable,” I say aloud. It fills the empty room, echoes around it loosely.
I nod in satisfaction. Abominable is a good start to describing what I think about my diagnosis.
This one’s in print. Some of our best stories live in the magazine — subscribe to get Mishpacha every week.
