I’m a little embarrassed. I’m so used to being some level of terribly fucking sick and in pain, that I honestly have no idea when something is seriously wrong. If I went to the ER/hospital every time I felt like I was dying, I’d never be home. Fuck all that.
The past few weeks have been something out of a horror movie for me. My head was shoved so far up my ass (Human Centipede, anyone?), I could see Jupiter. I lived in my little bubble of depression and avoided doing anything, to include talking to my friends and family. Somewhere along the line (very recently, I’m sure), I decided that I’m ready to call it quits. I’m too worn out to fight anymore. I began talking to friends I hadn’t spoken to in months – my own way of saying goodbye.
As I talked to these weirdos, I realized just how good I have it. I may have a broken, piece of shit body, but I’ve also got people. A dead person can’t have friends. I don’t want to give my friends up just so I can blow away in the wind. Where’s the fun in that? Also, it turns out that dying isn’t all that fun either**. It gave me one hell of a hangover.
I get by with a little help from my friends.
**Expect a multi-post explanation when my body gets its shit together. Until then…