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Confession
thejanechord
Diaryland
notifylist.com
2002-07-23
4:42 p.m.
Due in large part to the beer-buying fiasco at the concert Sunday night, I haven't had anything to drink since Thursday night. That's five days without a drink. It's never a good thing when I commence the counting of days between drinks.
Something about the major crises in which I kept finding myself last week made me think the alcohol was hurting me more than it was helping. I decided to stop drinking for awhile because I'm going through one of those times in my life where all foreign substances start to make me feel simply disgusting. I don't know if I can describe it in any way other than that: I feel completely and utterly disgusting in a way that I don't think I've ever truly experienced outside my own mind.
Whenever things aren't going well, it only makes sense to change something you're doing, right? If one changes the approach, one should be able to expect a different result. That's simple enough to be understandable by a toddler. The unfortunate fact of the matter is, however, that I have a very serious disease that continually finds the same end result, regardless of the means.
Today, I'm beaten into submission to the write-now-or-die god by two forces. First, my chest is clenched to a point where I expect to see blood spurting violently from a gaping wound through my chest into my aorta. And second, I'm stricken with a recently recurrent phenomenon where I feel a strange fizzling at the bottom of my ribcage.
I realize that makes no sense at all.
That is, of course, one of my major complaints about suffering from any sort of mental anguish: there never seems to be an adequate means for expression. All I can hope to do is convey the tiniest bit of the idea of my thoughts, and then the best I can expect is for very few people who read my thoughts to actually be able to formulate a conjecture as to what I could possibly have meant.
In any case, that's why I have to describe today's sensation as a fizzling. The amount of traumatic energy coursing through my brain and chest right now appears to be enough to have gained a monopoly of my body's neurotic reserves. By that, I mean that my head and my chest are all that can feel ANYTHING right now.
For all other purposes, I am useless.
At the point where my upper body gives way to the lack of sensation in my lower body, I feel like someone took my body and ripped it in half like a single sheet of paper. They then discarded the lower half of my body and lost it entirely. Since the top half is the coherent, sentient half, I am left with only the ability to recognize the inherent shock to the torn nerve-endings.
It's fizzling.
I don't even know if "fizzling" is a word. All I know is that I feel this sudden fizzling, and it's not enjoyable in the least. And I remember having used it before when I described the feeling of drugs leaving my brain as a "fizzling out."
See 11/20/98.
Fizzling is like fizzing, only it's more sporadic, more intense, and more ultimately painful. Besides, fizzing isn't supposed to happen to the human body. Fizzling probably isn't either, but I swear that's what it is.
It feels like a blue-glowing electric current resting in a specific place in your body. It feels hot and alive like that. It feels like it's putting your body on the verge of a shudder -- the first part of a shudder, when you haven't really reached the point of shuddering and you're just hanging onto a precipice that may or may not actually exist. It feels like I'm about to lose control, whether to a sudden outburst of violence, a punch to a wall, or a slice into skin.
But it just HANGS there.
I wish the fizzling would leave me the fuck alone. What did I ever do to it? What did I ever do to deserve this goddamn stupid fucking disease that torments me so relentlessly and invisibly, haunting my every hour, waking or sleeping, walking or running, reading or writing, believing, being, seizing, seeming...?
I hate it.
I'd prefer to have cancer. I'd prefer to have AIDS. I'd prefer to have any disease that didn't incur the wrath of my own subconscious, the wrath of my own conscious, and the wrath of intercourse between the two, all at the same time, ever without ceasing, always without absolutely knowing or not knowing anything with any degree of certainty at all.
