But I did screw up, regularly, and at one point I had 'the talk' with my advisor. The terror gripped me full around the throat, and every day it squeezed harder. I was exhausted when I left work. I sat in my chair for hours on the 'net, barely moving, mouth agape, muscles and joints mumbling beneath my skin.

And then I physically fell apart. I was in the most immense pain of my life for 2 days before, finally, I could not take it anymore. At 6am, after a night of cold sweats, labored panting and a throbbing singed awakeness, I drove to my clinic. I had surgery under local anaesthesia. Dressings bound and pain killers in my blood, I went to sign forms and get yet more pills. The drive home was fine mostly--until the medication wore off sooner than I expected. And the pain blotted out the sun. I got out of the car with a twinge. My pants were covered in blood, the front seat likewise stained.

I spent the next week at my apartment in the worst pain I have ever known. There is no heart break deep enough, broken opportunity big enough, or any emotional or mental anguish that can compare to the depths of physical pain. My tears would burn my eyes as I rocked back and forth in the shower. I showered over 20 times a day. The medication helped, but it only filtered the pain. My sheets were soaked with frigid sweat every night. I would sleep fitfully for hours at a time, a sudden bite slamming me back into reality and a dark-eyed Hell.

My body had forced me to take an impromptu break, and break me it nearly did.

Ever since then I have been watchful and vigilant, paranoid of even a crack of the condition coming back. The things of love and devotion are murky warm creatures, aurora boreali underwater. But the memory of that pain is clear, like the cut of a knife, and everything I have known is dwarved by it. I will avoid that pain at any cost. I am afraid of it.

God, I hope that my body will not fail me again.

It is bad enough I got bronchitis right after getting over a cold. I am this weak thing again, coughing wet into the crook of my elbow as my immune system slowly recycles itself through my mouth. Brian had asked if I smoked. It's that kind of cough, and it is annoying.

I rarely get sick, and then suddenly my health takes a small dive. Is it the lack of sleep? The fevered visions? Some lurking psychological pain swimming beneath the water, teeth barred?

I have an iron fist over my emotions, my mental processes, my schedule, my social networks. Everything moves in random yet ordered patterns, set up long ago in ways that work best for me. But this scrap of flesh, this meat is a rebellion. Everything would be nearly ideal were it not for these lingering idiocies of my body.

Yet I have little choice but to negotiate, and wait, and pray. Pray very, very fucking hard.

previous - next