All's Well

What, am I supposed to feel guilty?" I say. He looks confused. "Guilty?" "That I feel fine for once? That I'm not limping and moaning around? Dragging my leg like Briana? Lying on the floor, crying into my ears when everyone else around me rolls their eyes? I'm supposed to feel bad that I'm better now? I'm supposed to cry over a little cut. To what? To make you feel like I'm not a monster. I need to perform my little bit of pain for you so you'll know I'm human?" "Miranda, I didn't mean—" "But not too much pain, am I right? Not too much, never too much. If it was too much, you wouldn't know what to do with me, would you? Too much would make you uncomfortable. Bored. My crying would leave a bad taste. That would just be bad theater, wouldn't it? A bad show. You want a good show. They all do. A few pretty tears on my cheeks that you can brush away. Just a delicate little bit of ouch so you know there's someone in there. So you don't get too scared of me, am I right? So you know I'm still a vulnerable thing. That I can be brought down if need be.

We all fall, Ms. Fitch. We fall and we rise. Bones and tissue heal. But sometimes we want to hold on to the pain. Sometimes we have our reasons for not being able to let go.

How amazing would that be? Each of us flushed and grinning in the spinning dark of our own overturned world

I gesture to the window and smile. Budding branches. Pale green leaves. Spring. Spring, does she see that? A time when everything is in bloom. Everything is having sex. Everything is so damp and fragrant and fuckable.

But not too much pain, am I right? Not too much, never too much. If it was too much, you wouldn't know what to do with me, would you? Too much would make you uncomfortable. Bored. My crying would leave a bad taste. That would just be bad theatre, wouldn't it? A bad show. You want a good show. They all do. A few pretty tears on my cheeks that you can brush away. Just a delicate little bit of ouch so you know there's someone in there. So you don't get too scared of me, am I right? So you know I'm still a vulnerable thing. That I can be brought down if I need be.

This face says I’ve known joy and pain, known them both. I’ll know them both again.

I’m faking it and you’re faking it and we’re all fucked, basically.

Talking at me about her miserable life while I lie imprisoned on the floor. Pouring it all into me like emotional Drano.

He looks at me like I’m a black funnel of wind, gathering force. Heading his way.

At the grocery store that evening, I weave the cart dancingly, lightly, between the aisles. Standing on my tiptoes. Standing on my heels. Sometimes jumping up on the cart, letting it sail with the forward momentum of my body. Letting one foot dangle off the edge. So fun. I say hello to all the shoppers I pass.

Ice still on the windshield. Trucks roaring past like laughing devils.

I never know the answer. They bear legitimate witness to my incompetence, my inebriation until the curtains part for showtime. And at last, I’m able to retreat. Shake off the pretense that I’m actually doing something. Melt into the backstage dark, a ghost spying on the living. Tonight? Tonight’s different. Look at me, I’m here. Right here behind the curtain. In the eye of the storm. I’m standing on my legs. Standing straight. Standing tall. I’m a shining tower of calm behind the curtain. My body emanating two works: All’s Well. And al is well. Not dying at all for once. Not a ghost for once. Not even pale.

There is something loathsome about her intensity, her passion, I can’t deny it. The depth and breadth of it—how fiercely it burns under her unassuming skin.

She is always there, always ready, always on time, like only the truly mediocre are.

Maybe just a trick of the light.

This face shines another light. This face says I have lived, I’m alive. This face says I’ve known joy and pain, known them both. I’ll know them both again.

I'm supposed to feel bad that I'm better now? I'm supposed to cry over a little cut. To what? To make you feel like I'm not a monster. I need to perform my little bit of pain for you so you'll know I'm human?

Like a roaring in your head turned off. The beauty of the sudden silence. The miracle of lightness when you have lived so heavy.

Ellie, wanting something isn’t a crime.” “What if you want a terrible thing?

Slither, slither. All for the sake of her sad career, her sorry survival.

Look at you back on your feet. Doing all this good. Making people feel. That’s the work of the theater. All’s well that ends well, am I right?

I remember how long I used to stand there crookedly, staring down at the salt canisters. So beyond my reach they might as well have been stars. Tears gathered behind my eyes.

Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie which we ascribe to heaven. Remember this, remember this.

Though he has no real innate charisma, he’s tall enough that if he declares mutiny, they will all follow.

Sometimes we wish for terrible things, things we deserve. How could we not wish for them when we deserve them? And sometimes the heavens hear us. Something hears us. And our wishes come true. Should we feel guilty? Of course we shouldn't feel guilty, why guilty? Why guilty when we deserve it, when maybe, just maybe, it's a question of justice?

Some tell you, "Oh, whatever feels good". But nothing ever feels good, does it?

They break whoever they touch, Ms Fitch. Your Bank, your bones, your spirit.

I think the biggest thing is just how hard it is to be taken seriously, to be looked in the eye by doctors. I remember my doctors always looking at and talking to my partner, never to me, and if I was alone, just looking away. That’s an experience that Miranda frequently has in the book. Also, doctors quickly grabbing at “anxiety” as the reason why you might be in this shape. I felt pressure to make sure I wasn’t displaying any signs of stress so they had no reason to dismiss me or shut me up with a drug. I found there was a lot of pressure to be a good patient and to conform to some sort of progress narrative that my therapist or surgeon might have. And when your body fails to get better, they sort of want to blame you. So in All’s Well, Miranda is very anxious to prove that she is a good patient to her physical therapists and her doctors. But because she’s not improving, they dread her and don’t really know what to do with her anymore and they just kind of randomly experiment with her during therapy appointments—let’s do some tests, they say. It breeds a toxic relationship and a power dynamic that makes her really helpless, desperate, and ultimately worse off. There are some very sadistic surgeons and physical therapists in this book.