Besser

I stood in the middle of the pharmacy. Everything around me seemed too much to deal with. I had to be in New York, I couldn’t stay there but I couldn’t move. I started crying. The pharmacist didn’t understand, it’s just a simple mix up with your insurance. Nothing to be upset about.

I wasn’t sad I couldn’t get my insurance to cover the medicine I needed. I couldn’t stop crying. Sadness came over in waves.

My kids.

My sister.

The velt.

Deb Tambor.

When I was nosediving years ago, I barely pulled out in time. When I had setbacks recently, I had friends telling me it gets besser.

Does it ever get besser? I weep for someone I barely knew, someone who had setbacks and a nosedive she couldn’t pull out of. I think about my friends, the non-custodial mothers. Their children. Their chassidishe families.

I collapse on a sidewalk outside. Crouched in a fetal position, I wait for the tears to stop.

Besser is relative. Besser isn’t crying about the children you never see. Besser isn’t letting the velt get to you until you can no longer stand.

Besser is the resolve you feel to put one foot in front of the other and make it through the day. Sadly, a lot of us are not feeling besser today. We can’t make sense of the senseless. Besser doesn’t rise from a gravesite dug miles away from her children.

If you’re not feeling besser, find someone. Talk to someone – myderech at Gmail.

Besser is not feeling alone.

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