Health Update
Since writing the original post below, I've had a bit of a mental breakdown. Yes, another one, in the space of a week. In lieu of snapping my phone in half, I have removed the sim card and turned off the wifi. I am in a very bad way. I screamed in rage at my Psychologist during transference today. My anger is getting worse, or rather, less repressed. Right now I hate almost everyone, but if I speak to any of them of my complaints I will explode. So enjoy the original post below, which seems a lot more optimistic, but know that it did not, in fact, get better.
Long story short. I’m dying.
Just kidding, we all are.
I’m happy with how much I’m writing, but not the quality of it. I would like to be writing more essays and shorts stories. My mental health is not stable, but I think it’s improving. The other day I considered very heavily checking myself into the ER and getting referred to one of the non-critical mental health units they have there. I called a suicide hotline and managed to talk with someone genuinely empathetic who treated me like a human being, which, if you’re familiar with these lines, is about as unusual as finding a university student with a sense of humour.
My physical health has deteriorated significantly over the past 2 months thanks to my drinking. My proprioception and kinesthetics are fucked. Last night I went to go wipe off a kitchen knife on my pants, cut straight through the pants, and about 3-5mm deep into my flesh. The force, angle, and direction of the movement were all completely off. This is not a one time or even new issue, though it is the most recent dramatic one.
I’m broke from stupid spending especially on booze, but my savings are mostly intact. I’m eating healthier, drinking less, and at least haven’t quit working yet. I’m trying not to feel guilty and ashamed about everything. But that also means that a lot of the time my response to things is anger, no, fury.
Someone around me, who has a trend of doing this, will make some unkind, bullying remark, and before I would act as though I was playing it off but actually take it to heart. I’ve tried to make peace with them several times, tried to get to the bottom of what their problem is with me, and gotten nowhere. Mutuals have tried similar. The guy just doesn’t like me. Go figure.
Now when they do this, I want to smash their head in. But I can’t, because they’ve got at least 30 kilos on me, are at least twice as fit, and was in an actual fight much more recently than me. So I just call them a cunt and leave before I do something more stupid and start a fight.
Back to the whole dying business. I can tell my liver isn’t doing well. My friend, a nurse, pointed out that I was limping again, and I can feel my bone callus, which should be long gone, growing and shrinking repeatedly over the months. I assume this means something went wrong with the insertion of my intramedullar rod, or the operation in general, but who can say. I wrote a list of every symptom I’m experiencing and have experienced since I was a kid and the list was so long it would have me thrown out of the doctor’s office for being a malingerer or under the conclusion that they were psychosomatically induced, which, to be fair, the latter is almost certainly a major factor in many. Either way, I never assumed I would live a long life, even before everything went to shit.
After all, I’m Hamlet. My Ophelia killed herself, and I have returned home after long exile, thoroughly mad. Which means we are at Act V, the Final Act.