Entries Tagged 'Sick/Twisted' ↓

If your physician suggests an anti-depressant for your mild depression, addiction and MAJOR ANXIETY and she even tells you that it might make you more nervous, you might want to question that decision. Because you wouldn’t want to spend the next 48 hours FREAKING RIGHT THE FUCK OUT having panic attacks at Taste of India when there is delicious palak paneer and daal fry to be had. (Mmmm, and mint chutney.) You wouldn’t want to spend a perfectly beautiful Saturday or Sunday night balled up in the floor trying to breathe normally and not fly right out of the skin you’d rather claw off than exist within. You wouldn’t want to feel like running yet be totally incapable of getting off the couch.

You know you wouldn’t want that. You’ve been warned.

When I was in fifth and sixth grade I lived with my fucked up stepdad in this fucked up double-wide trailer on Petway Road. Not sure whose idea it was but we owned two goats, a momma goat and a baby goat. We had houses for them and hay and a salt lick, and even though they both met a tragic demise, they lived happy lives while our family lived a few feet away in constant terror and turmoil.

Sometimes I would sneak out to the goats’ houses for a reprise from the scariness of it all. And I would lick on the salt lick. Lick it right up.

So gross, right? Well, this blog post serves as more than just a confession. It’s also a disclosure to the boyfriend. I tried over and over to tell you this in person sweetie, but I just couldn’t, so I wrote about this here so you would know.

Baby, I gave you goat cooties.

I am home from work sick with the aches, snots and sneezes. My lymph nodes feel like softballs in my neck and owwww, my ears hurt. Starving but have no appetite, if that’s possible. Must focus all energy on breathing in and out successfully.

Oh my God, I am pregnant.

*At least right now the Smurfs are on.

I swear to the porcelain throne that no one pukes as much as I do. No one, I said. I puke on planes and I puke if I ride in backseats of cars. Surprisingly, I have only puked once after drinking, but I have thrown up on every other intoxicant I have ever tried, except for one. Really. Doing the dishes often makes me dry heave a little.

So, it is no surprise that for no reason at all at 5:30 this morning I awoke to that sickening, familiar feeling and headed straight for the bathroom. I put my face to the cold tile floor and waited. And waited. I could feel the illness rising in my body. After 20 minutes or so I shoved a finger down my throat and got it all over with. After 20 more minutes of gargling, teeth brushing and sitting on the couch in recovery watching the sun come up I went back to bed.

Good thing I find these purple spots I get around my eyes after hurling sort of cute. Tiny, colored freckles. Plus I get to enjoy mint tea and toast, one of my favorite breakfasts, while feeling all hollow and slim. Sick, I know, but there is something kind of calming about being totally empty.

Oh, and listen, I’m not pregnant. The internet always wants me to be pregnant, so don’t even start with that shit, yo.

There was a kid in the front seat. He was 3, maybe 4, with confused blonde hair and pajamas on. He rode buckled in the passenger side, but not in the required child safety seat that belongs in the back. His father pulled up fast to the curb. Immediately, the valet made his way to open the driver’s door. Instead the driver got out and walked past the red-coated guy with all the keys and raged in the front door. Through squinted eyes he surveyed the small, brick bistro. Then at the same speed he entered, he left to pulled his sleepy boy from the car.

When his father jerked him out of the car abruptly, the child began to cry. Tired, quiet, pleading cries that echoed once his dad took him inside the restaurant. Against the wall sat a young couple, she taller than he, smiling and sharing risotto. She jumped in her seat when the man carrying the boy stood him hard on the ground in front of her. Her  gasp seemed to empty the room of all it’s air.

"You won’t be fucking tonight!," he screamed at her and turned to leave. The child’s sobs grew louder and he grabbed at his father as he stomped out the door. The child only managed two fistfuls of coat before his father tore off. He drove away too soon, since the valet was calling to have the vehicle towed.

The young couple at the table swooped up the boy in their arms and took him outside for fresh air and calm. Within minutes they were back at their table, happily playing a card game, but they left soon after. As they exited I heard them fretting about not having a car seat for the ride home.

Right click on this .wmv link then open it in Windows Media Player (or other applicable video application) for a heaping helping of instant karma. Not for the squeamish, but you will especially love this if you have ever ridden a bike.

Turns out, if this webpage is legitimate, that the kid who got faced in that video wasn’t trying to hurt anybody and now I feel really bad about implying he got what he deserved. But without any backstory it was hard to think he wasn’t bullying that kid. Anyway, glad to know he survived.

Man. I feel like a real ass.

I have coccydnia, otherwise known as acute tailbone pain.  It started a couple of months ago.  I’d sit down on the floor too fast and pop right back up again from a searing pain in my tailbone.  Occasionally if I was sitting cross-legged and leaned back it would feel really sore right at the tip of my spine.

Well, it’s gotten worse.  In the past three days I have had nearly constant tailbone pain, often stinging and debilitating.  After sleeping fitfully, knowing between dreams that something is definitely wrong with my backside, I woke up pissed and sore.  Getting up to pee in the night was difficult, and when I awoke this morning all I could do was sit and cry at the computer trying to figure out what is wrong with me.

After reading tons of information on the internet I’ve learned that my pain could be caused by any number of things and that the only tried and true cure is surgery.  A few people claim acupuncture and massage and exercise have worked for them, but most everyone who is "cured" has their tailbone removed.  I could have spurs on my coccyx (tailbone) or it could be misaligned, malformed or too long.  My coccyx could be "flipped."  I could have a cyst or scoliosis.  Sometimes it can be caused by the sufferer being too thin, but everybody can just go ahead and cross that cause right on off the list.  Or it could be, my personal favorite, cancer.

The good news is ice and ibuprofen help a little bit.  I’ll try a small dose of a muscle relaxer later to see if that helps.  That bad news is I don’t have health insurance.

It hurts to sit down, my favorite place to be, and I’m not medically insured.  Boy, times are tough for my ass.

When I was in high school I owned this ugly pair of green sunglasses that I wore everyday.  I loved them so much I’d keep them on a few extra minutes after I entered a building.  Naturally, I lost them, because if I’m good at anything it’s losing shit. 

I turned my house upside down looking for those sunglasses.  I was disturbed by their disappearance, I couldn’t imagine where they had gone.  I looked everywhere, and after days of searching I was desperate if only to prove to myself I wasn’t insane.

In the mornings before school I would sit cross-legged in the doorway of my closet and put on makeup.  One morning after giving up on ever finding the glasses, I rummaged through my Caboodle makeup organizer and pulled out the green sunglasses.  I tucked them into a zippered part of my backpack immediately.

The next morning, again sitting in front of the full-length mirror on my closet door, undoubtedly applying way too much eyeliner I pulled out a pair of green framed sunglasses identical to the ones I’d lost then found.  I was stunned.  Floored, actually, but went immediately to my backpack.  I found the green sunglasses I’d found the day before exactly where I left them.  I held in my hands two pair of identical sunglasses.

I told everyone who listen at school that day, and showed them both pairs.  I was a big, fat liar as a kid (some would call me a storyteller) so I don’t think anybody believed me.  Hell, I hardly believed me.

I carried around both pair for about a year and a half.  I lost one pair and then the other, never sure which was which.

And while I was a big, fat liar as a teenager I’m an adult now–an adult with a journalism degree–I can’t just be making shit up.  If I have ever told the truth on this blog it is TODAY.  That was the single most Lynchian event of my entire life.  Those who know me know I wouldn’t say that if it was based on a lie.

In 6th grade I lived in a tiny two bedroom apartment on Hibiscus St. with my mother and my sister.  I rode my bike a lot then–on the porch and down and around the dead-end loop that was my street.  The road ended at the parking lot of my aparment building, but not before climbing an enormous hill.  That paved mountain of a back yard was lots of fun on two wheels.  My sister and the only other neighbor our age would ride together almost nightly.

On this afternoon, for some reason long ago lost on me, I was riding the neighbor girl’s bike instead of my own, even though it was too small for me.  She was a couple of years younger, and tiny, but I pulled my knees to my ears and rode it anyway.

The huge hill curved to the right and out of sight of those standing at the top.  My sister and the neighbor stood watching as I shot down the slope on the teeny bicycle, the tops of my thighs smacking the pink rubber-covered handlebars all the way down.  Once out of sight I tossed the bike gently to the side and layed down on the ground next to it.  I screamed for my sister and friend, yelling that I’d crashed only to laugh uncontrollably when they came jogging down.

For an 11-year old that is a pretty cunning trick, so I had to do it again.  After they took a few turns I did the exact same thing, only this time it wasn’t as easy to get them to come running.  I had to plead and insist "I’M NOT KIDDING THIS TIME!"  They finally came to my aid looking thoroughly worried.  Haha!–gotten again. 

Life was good.  I was 11, riding bikes after school, fooling my sister and having some laughs.  I was feeling pretty invincible.  So, I mounted the bike for a third sail down the hill, and I was almost around the corner when my too-long legs sent the handlebars  akimbo causing me to flip over the bike and meet fast and furious with the ground below.  The bicycle landed on top of me.

I tried to get up by propping my weight on my left arm, but I learned quickly and in a horrifying amount of pain that my arm was broken.  I screamed for help.  I heard nothing in return but echo of my pitiful plea.

I lay crumpled and covered by a bike on the street for ten or fifteen minutes.  I tried, but I couldn’t get up, the pain was too hot and searing.  Finally a neighbor drove by and called an ambulance. 

Once at the backwoods Ashland City hospital they realized the break was too severe for them to handle.  They wrapped my mangled left arm in a magazine and duct taped it up.  I was transported to a Nashville hospital wearing a glossy, yet sturdy, Vogue magazine on my arm.  The nurse who saw me right after I was admitted laughed out loud when she saw it.

Anyway, if you are wondering I learned my lesson.  I don’t ever fake it anymore.  Nothing good ever comes of that.