Die My Love

Sobbed at the end. Go forth and go free. There were only eleven of us in the theatre. It made the whiplash much more impactful. "I feel like I'm being thrashed around by an unhinged toddler," I said to my sister at the end, wiping the tears off my cheeks. The frustration to the point of numbness, the extreme exhaustion, the depletion of joie de vivre; I felt it all. Three people walked out of the theatre soon after the ending scene started—of course, all of them young men. Four people cried with me through the end, our sniffles echoed through the near-empty theatre—of course, all of them young women, sat on the row in front of us. After all, who could better empathise with stories about post-partum psychosis?