Eight and half hours. Eight and half hours. That’s how long it took from the pain to start finish. I know, because I counted down twenty minutes at a time, praying to God that I wouldn’t be throwing up and laying on the floor of a public bathroom, or dying in the front seat of a car on the way to the ER, or passed out on the emergency room floor laying on God knows what, surrounded by people, or laying on a gurney in the hallway behind the receptionist booth waiting to get some fucking pain killers. For Eight and a half hours the pain didn’t stop, it didn’t progress or lessen in any way. Eight and a half hours I felt like a knife had been struck into the upper right quadrant of my stomach and the knife was being carved around the inside of my organs similarly to how you might carve a pumpkin for Halloween.
Needless to say I regretted that tantalizing glass of Merlot. I felt in the time I waited that it was the Reaper come to flirt at my door one last time. Of course, I didn’t have this thought until after I was heavily medicated. I was completely out of my mind during those eight hours. Honestly, the only thing I could really do was torture myself by keeping track of time–also not a thing to do that I would recommend to anyone else. I suppose if I had any thought during the episode it was just a biological response. I wanted the pain to stop.
It was a bit stupid of me really. I had finally broken down I took a drink to ease the pain. The drink in return gave me even more pain, reminding me, again that it can get worse and I deeply regretted every moment following that first drink of wine.
I drank the wine because I was angry. I wanted to tell the world to fuck off. I wanted to tell everyone to fuck off. I think it’s easy to refer to someone as an inspiration or a martyr of sorts when you only know what they’ve faced and that they survived. I doubt I am half of the hero they believe me to be in their heads. There are some days I get up, tell myself that I can’t predict the future and I remain optimistic. However, when life throws you down in the dirt and then continuously walks over you while you’re down there it’s a little hard to always be a beacon of hope.
Truth is, I’ve never been good at accepting that I have limitations. The last two years have been challenging because for the first time I have truly been restricted by my circumstances and it pisses me off.
It was good wine…if that makes a difference. My ‘fuck-off-glass’ was every bit satisfying as I imagined it to be. Or at least it was, until I was throwing up and laying on the floor in a public bathroom. (Can cross that one off my bucket list.)
Seriously though, it was the wrong choice. I am only admitting my dirty deed on here because I want to send a message. I know I’m not the only person who has ever wanted to tell it all to fuck off, but next time I’m going to do it in a way that doesn’t hurt me. If you want to be a survivor, then you have to survive. You can’t cut yourself from the picture or make yourself weaker because you feel like you’ll never see the light again. All I did was turn a mountain into a volcano.
Right now, i’m not okay. Nothing that’s going on in my life is okay. But It is okay, not to be okay. I have to believe that right now to get me to the next steps of this recovery. If anyone wants to be inspired by me, I hope that they will be inspired by that.