Here’s the story of being anal, illness, and a skirting board.
I genuinely believe that by the end of this week, my arm will have fallen off. Because everything else has gone wrong. My throat has shed many of its layers. My lungs are under siege. My hayfever continues to worsen. I have an ulcer in a painful place. There’s something in my left eye. It won’t stop watering. I am literally falling to pieces. Hence why I’m fairly confident I’ll be armless fairly soon. I’m already legless, although that’s merely a metaphor for drunkenness, drunkenness to drown out the misery. Oh, how I bloody love you Mr. Whisky…
This is my third week of illness and my melodramatic, ‘Oh I’m dying, let’s make some jokes about it’ bit is getting increasingly more realistic. Three weeks of gut-wrenching, lung destroying, throat ripping, violent coughing. Maybe I am dying. It just never felt real until now. This should’ve been my first clue due to my lack of dyingness when I thought I was dying. That and the fact I was still alive. Well, that and that I were gleefully typing words on a keyboard. No, not gleefully. Barely. That’s the word.
My eye ache is the latest in my long list of body degradation woes. Hard to explain the sensation without making you wince. Imagine somebody got one of those metallic eye-expanding devices you see in horror movies. They expanded my left eye, poured in copious amounts of sand, then removed said machinery. That’s what it feels like. A big bulging bloodshot eye that won’t stop weeping. This isn’t a pretty picture, is it?
To be honest, my whole body feels like it’s suffering. I don’t get very ill very often. But when I do, it all happens at once. It has left me tired, low on energy, and lacking a lust for life. Long illness does that. It’s not been the best of starts my 23rd year of life.
I haven’t been to the doctors. I hate doctors. They don’t like me and they treat me like crap. But there isn’t another doctor’s anywhere near me, so my options are fairly limited. It would be easier pinning all my hopes on magic beans than going to the doctors. And I’m fairly sure the moths stole them. Oh yes, I’m still having problems with moths. And flies now, too. And there is a weird floating thing that looks like a flying stick insect starfish. There is a distinct possibility that I’m hallucinating under the sheer weight of all the drugs I am on.
I don’t want to know. If I go to the docs and he tells me it’s nothing to worry about, he’ll tell me to wait it out since I can’t take antibiotics. And if it is something serious, well, I don’t want to know. I’d rather die of my mystery illness than worry about it. I’m one of those. And if you know one of those types of people, you’ll know we never change our minds.
I also don’t want a fuss. Why concern yourself with me? There are other people in the world. What’s so special about me? I’m sure I’ll be fine; it’s just depressing is all. So many things to do and I can’t do anything. Except depress you. Which I don’t like doing, because I’ve really grown to like some of you guys.
It doesn’t help being anal. Lying in bed, not because I’m getting bed rest but rather because I just don’t have the energy to move, annoys me. My room isn’t tidy. I can’t tidy it. Things aren’t in the right place. Things aren’t aligned properly. The clock isn’t equidistant on the side cabinet. There was a mark on the skirting board. On one occasion this week, father found me flat out on the floor, on my belly, like someone who has just fainted, my head resting on its side and a cloth in my left hand scrubbing away at the skirting board. I’d rolled out of bed, landed harshly on the floor, and crawled across on my belly, a manœuver that took some time. Just to tend to the skirting board. I’m going crazy, people!
It’s no fun. Even trying to cheer myself up, something I have to do because the only companions I have are mother and father, doesn’t work. Laughing makes my eye water more and my chest hurt. And it doesn’t help that mother and father are angry at me for being too ‘down’ lately. Father shouted at me on Friday. “We all know you’re ill, but you’ll do what we tell you! A million chores to do! Do them! No excuses!” Oh, piss off.
Three weeks of nothingness. And counting.
Because I’ve spent much of this post being all moody, I hope you can understand why, I’ve decided to end on a note that isn’t necessarily happy, but something I feel is important. Something to steer clear of the hellish nightmare I’ve been dwelling within for some while now.
I had a spot filled with blood. I awoke on Friday morn and headed to the bathroom. My face was bloodied and my screams were extremely high-pitched. I didn’t know it had burst during the night. I thought I’d been shot. Regardless, it made me realize that my body is turning on me. Ulcer, eye, throat, nose and repeated bad hair days. If my life is a wine bottle and the cork popping was my birth, then surely, recent events in this little melodramatic world of mine would suggest that that cork is about to re-enter my hole. And when that moment comes, I want you guys to know, the closest people I have to friends, that you’ve made the wine in that bottle fizz more than I ever thought it could. And I swear to you that most of that love isn’t the whisky talking.
Although, undoubtedly, and inevitably, some of it probably is.
American writer, Jarod Kintz (b. 1982), once said: “There is life, and there is death, and in-between there is me. Please don’t wake me up”.
Peace Out :|:
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To Contrive & Jive
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Hark Around The Words
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