Another upper respiratory infection. My ears have been affected, and my balance is off.
I’ve always been sick. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had to go to doctors several times a year, hospitals, specialists. Mine has been a life of sanitation and medication.
I’ve been chronically nauseous since before I knew there was a word for it. I remember Maggie taught me the word so I could tell it to my school nurse whenever necessary.
I also suffer from chronic bronchitis, which means I get it several times a year.
I have twisted ankles.
I get migraines several times a week.
I have a knee that pops out of place all the time, and I never even played a sport!
I suffer from back spasms all day, every day. I can’t remember the last time nothing hurt.
I can’t even remember. I’d laugh, if it wasn’t so sad. My neurotic need to write everything down is the only thing keeping me functional because I literally cannot remember most of the things that happen to me in a day.
These are just some of the symptoms medication seems unable to address. I hope that once the anxiety is completely gone, the psychosomatic symptoms will go with it. But I think of Sam’s compulsion to crack his neck, even though it hurts him to do so. His 30 mg of Lexapro steady him somewhat, but they aren’t a cure-all.
So, once I’m over this upper respiratory infection, I’ll go to the organic grocers and to the gym. Despite the psychopharmaceuticals overflowing from my medicine box, I maintain my preference for homeopathic remedies—another belief I had to throw away early on in the fight against this monster in my head.
I want to submit to this crying spell, but I’m not going to. I can do that: dissociate at will. That’s not something to be proud of, but it’s what I’ve got right now. I’m looping like a sound effect what Sam yelled at me from the kitchen Saturday morning. Amidst another conversation about something, he shouts from the kitchen, “Depression is anger turned inward.”
The idea is so widely accepted, it’s become cliché, but this was the first time I was really considering it in terms of my own life. I’ve heard the phrase a million times, read it a million times that, and I’ve participated in debates about the idea. Yet, when he said it yesterday, I suddenly considered, “if that’s true, at whom am I angry? If I’m not angry at the Andys and I’m not angry at myself, who is left?
For a few moments on Friday night, my anger turned on Sang, but my fear of expressing true anger made the outburst ridiculous. Sang and Sam laughed. I pouted; I shouted, “I mean it!” I might as well have stomped my foot, because the effect was that I looked like a child throwing a tantrum. I was a six year old girl again, frustrated I couldn’t stop my parents’ abuses.
—Fuck. I was a sad kid. It’s the one command I heard again and again from strangers’ mouths: smile! Pocarisa, my aunt called me. My family encouraged the use of the nickname. Rarelylaughs. No one ever gets why I tell that story, as if to prove its point.
—Shit. These are the words of a depressive. I don’t know what’s going through my head right now.
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