Into the void...

2004-05-24

3:30 p.m.

I suppose there are times in life that are supposed to be more painful than others. There are times where people understand that you have a lot going on and you’ll need some time to collect yourself. Someone you love dies, something you’ve worked hard for has fallen through your grasp, something you needed to feel better about yourself has somehow disappeared into a mist of absolute nothingness.

These things are understandable.

What is not understandable is the way I feel these days. I feel like there’s a million tiny bugs crawling beneath my skin. I feel like there’s a handful of Mexican jumping beans bouncing around in my heart. I feel like I’m going to cry for no reason, like I’m going to explode from this mysterious numbness running throughout my extremities. I feel like I’m going to puke, like I’m going to run around screaming, unable to control myself into a socially acceptable human being for one minute longer.

I’m a total mess.

I have to pack up everything I own and move it in three weeks. We have one box packed. I will be out of town for a wedding for the few days immediately preceding my move.

Ack.

There’s a lump in the back of my throat, I need to pee every three minutes for no reason, I went to the dentist the other day and discovered that I need to go to a periodontist for grafting of my gums because my gums are receding behind my bottom front teeth, and if I don’t go through the expensive, painful process, my teeth might fall out, and it’s not because of anything in particular that I’ve done, it’s just that I’m falling apart because whoever created this horrible bundle of flesh created it poorly.

I’m a lemon.

Everything is wrong with me. I can’t do anything I want to do. I whine and complain nineteen hours out of the day, and I still don’t feel better. I’m on five prescriptions at the age of twenty-six. I’m unable to speak in class without turning bright red and losing feeling in my body. I want to become an alcoholic, but I’m so terrified of becoming fat that I try not to drink all those empty calories very often.

Is something wrong with the medication? I don’t know. Is this something I should mention to a doctor? I don’t think so. If I mention something to a doctor right now, I’ll probably end up going through an even more troublesome episode of revamping the drug cocktail I’m on until I feel slightly better for about two years, and then I turn back into this absolute wreck.

I’m sick of the mental carnival rides. I'm sick of something being wrong with me everytime I see a doctor.

When does the good news start?

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