I never hear from or see my youngest brother anymore. It’s been like that for the past year give or take. Until this past Tuesday. I saw him when I came to his house to pick up his two little … Continue reading
There’s a wild beast inside me that I’m trying to lay to rest. It misses the days of excessive drinking and pill popping and lines of Coke off bathroom counters. It’s trying to make me believe that I had wonderful times, I was the belle of the ball, and my hair looked lucious and shiny. I can feel the beast coursing through my veins making my body itch- giving me a terrible urge to scratch my porcelain skin until I free it from within. My hair was never shiny and I was no belle at any bar. But titos on the rocks with a lemon was so good. Face cringingly good. And all the Xanax and all the Vicodin, I can picture my hand throwing the blue and white poison into my mouth. Swallow it all down with the beer I’m drinking with the titos. Talk to a few random strangers – that aren’t really strangers because I’ve seen them out at a bar or somewhere before. And one of them knows someone I know, somehow. So when I’m invited into the unisex bathroom to blow a line up my nose to wake up – I go happily. Trying to figure out how many more drinks I’ll have to pay for myself for the rest of the night.
And then I think, “i read somewhere that every time you black out it’s a sign of your brain being flooded with alcohol. And the more you black out, the closer you are to never waking up again..”
My hand sits on my collar bone and I feel alone and scared. The beast is gone. That thought was the equivalent to hitting the beast over the head with a shovel.
I hate it when the beast comes around. And I hate what I have to think about to make it go away.
Ahh. Sober life.
“In biology, poisons are substances that cause disturbances in organisms, usually by chemical reaction or other activity on the molecular scale, when an organism absorbs a sufficient quantity.” I’ve taken my fair share of drugs. I’m not referring to the … Continue reading
I’m not too young.
I’m thirty-fucking-five. I have two kids in middle school. I’ve been driving a car for 20 years. I am responsible for paying bills, like utilities, rent, my jeep payment… If i fuck up big time there’s no one to cover for me or pay my bills or hold my hand.
Does any of that sound like any life other than that of a grown adult?
So why is it every doctor I see says to me, “you’re only thirty five. What are you going to do when you’re sixty?”
All I can do is look back and reply, “I don’t know. Maybe science will have an answer and a solution by the time I’m sixty. Or maybe Midwest doctors won’t be so clueless about an illness that is diagnosed 3 million times a year. But in the mean time, could you forget about my age and concentrate on why the fuck I’m in so much pain for no god damn reason?!”
No doctor can tell me why I feel this way. They can’t explain the pain- where it comes from and why. They can’t tell me why I have days of exhaustion. The only message I get from any doctor is: you’re quality of life doesn’t matter.
While no doctor has ever uttered those heinous words, they have said by the way I am treated. If I’m not being given prescription after prescription of pills, I’m given nothing more than statements like “you’re only thirty five” and “you’re just too young to have this”.
I just love hearing that last comment- you’re just too young to have this. Really? Cause my body doesn’t think I’m too young. Did your training in medical school teach you all about the age that it becomes acceptable to have a chronic illness? Did you learn that there is a certain age for treating individuals?
I didn’t think so.
My name is Brooklin, I have fibromyalgia, generalized anxiety disorder, major depressive disorder, ptsd.
This is my place, where I am beginning a journey to get better (I hope). Rants, raves, recipes, hope, ideas, thoughts, and anything else that helps me get through my day, will have a home here.