I wanna pierce my tongue. It doesn't hurt, it feels fine.

"I'm not sick but I'm not well..."

When my brother Stan was very young, he did a somersault in our living room, right into the protruding spike on the front of a rocking chair. He had a scar on his forehead that showed up in school pictures until he grew his hair into an early nineties "surfer cut" that covered it up. When he was older, he was in a horrific accident that nearly killed him. He needed skin grafts, and now has scars on his arms and legs. The tiny one in the middle of his forehead is still there, though. That's the thing about getting injured. It heals in time, but often leaves a scar.

My heart was broken when my husband left me. My mind was broken, too. I was a zombie. Dead inside, though you'd never know it. I went to work, went out with my family, went to church, went on dates, but never actually went anywhere. I cried far too often. I "bounced back" to all outward appearances. People talk about it like it's a thing of the past. Like I was healed, I got over it, no big deal. But it's like that scar that you almost forget. Almost.

When I see a happy couple, I want to pull him aside and say, "be good to her." When I see a sex scene in a movie or a tv show, I turn away. I used to watch sitcoms. I still have season one of Mad About You on DVD. I know, because I cleaned out my movie cabinet two weeks ago. I found comedies. Love stories. Life stories. Movies I haven't watched in ages. The last movie I saw in the theatre? Prince Caspian. With my kids. Now it's crime shows. Murder. Mystery. Anything to turn my brain to the analytical and away from memory.

But the saying goes, You tell a lie often enough and you start to believe it yourself. I'm fine, I say. Really.

"I'm not sick but I'm not well..."