HOLY $@&%!!!!
Wednesday night's spaz attack was brought me by the hormone estrogen. (And by imminent inclement weather and too much vodka and without enough dinner.) I fell asleep crying, dozed for four or five hours, woke up and started again, still drunk and half-wondering why my wrists hurt so much. I didn't wash them. I called Sam, because no one else can help me break down a nervous breakdown just by holding me and listening.
I slept for two hours and dragged myself out of bed to get a sandwich I couldn't eat. As I walked back, the pain hit me like a tidal wave. It almost knocked me down, radiating and filling the spaces between my bones. No pills in my mailbox. I didn't want to be alone, as if I was afraid of what challenges were to come. I collapsed on my bed, unable to move. By six pm, the intensity thrust me into a stupor. My mind kind of detached itself from a body wracked with too much pain to be comprehended. I saw stars. Tried to think of another time in my life when my muscles tightened up enough to inhibit movement (as opposed to simply making me disinclined to move). Hoped that no one I care about will ever have to experience that firsthand. Realized that I did, indeed, have a hangover on top of the indomitable ache. Writhed and moaned a bit. Tried to distract myself by remembering the words to "Partridge in a Pear Tree." Couldn't get beyond ten pipers playing or piping or whatever it is they do. Heard the sleet begin to fall. Wasn't in the least surprised. Thought, "I bet this is what it feels like to be crushed."
Or stepped on. Then I thought, "It's better to feel stepped on than trampled." Was grateful for that.
I got my nerves reeled in only to become acquainted with the joys of physical incapacitation. Only my mind worked. The pain had turned me batty and silly and my thoughts were absurd, but I couldn't sit up for very long. Fingers wouldn't hold a pen. And I couldn't sleep. It persisted for eight hours. Thank God my friends make house calls.
It's better. Melting with the ice. I figured out that the post office people put the envelope with my pills in someone else's mailbox. No hard feelings. I've had enough hard feelings. Now I either want to get sauced or dream about unicorns galloping down rainbows.
I slept for two hours and dragged myself out of bed to get a sandwich I couldn't eat. As I walked back, the pain hit me like a tidal wave. It almost knocked me down, radiating and filling the spaces between my bones. No pills in my mailbox. I didn't want to be alone, as if I was afraid of what challenges were to come. I collapsed on my bed, unable to move. By six pm, the intensity thrust me into a stupor. My mind kind of detached itself from a body wracked with too much pain to be comprehended. I saw stars. Tried to think of another time in my life when my muscles tightened up enough to inhibit movement (as opposed to simply making me disinclined to move). Hoped that no one I care about will ever have to experience that firsthand. Realized that I did, indeed, have a hangover on top of the indomitable ache. Writhed and moaned a bit. Tried to distract myself by remembering the words to "Partridge in a Pear Tree." Couldn't get beyond ten pipers playing or piping or whatever it is they do. Heard the sleet begin to fall. Wasn't in the least surprised. Thought, "I bet this is what it feels like to be crushed."
Or stepped on. Then I thought, "It's better to feel stepped on than trampled." Was grateful for that.
I got my nerves reeled in only to become acquainted with the joys of physical incapacitation. Only my mind worked. The pain had turned me batty and silly and my thoughts were absurd, but I couldn't sit up for very long. Fingers wouldn't hold a pen. And I couldn't sleep. It persisted for eight hours. Thank God my friends make house calls.
It's better. Melting with the ice. I figured out that the post office people put the envelope with my pills in someone else's mailbox. No hard feelings. I've had enough hard feelings. Now I either want to get sauced or dream about unicorns galloping down rainbows.