My Doorbell

January 22, 2009

Things were going good. It was all working. I hadn’t thought about it in a long time. Seriously. It hadn’t crossed my mind. I hadn’t Googled it, I hadn’t sought out movies about it, read books about it, even clicked on MSNBC stories about it (Paula Abdul, you know what I am talking about). So, I don’t know why a few weeks ago, it showed up again. I have been “dealing” with these thoughts since elementary school. It makes no sense and it is impossible to explain. Through time, I have periodically sought help for it. I have been on various medications. I have been instructed to admit myself, but that would never fit in with my busy schedule, so I politely declined.

I am a medication for it now. I think it is a pretty serious one too, at least it has a cool name. I think I could even take it to the Oscars if I were invited – it sounds that chic. Last Friday, I got a paper cut on my right wrist. It bled for a bit and hurt like a mf. It is pain like that that causes me to hop to the path I once walked, the well worn path of the “D” word. It is warm and cozy there. I know what to expect and where it leads. I know what to say, what songs to listen to, and am never disappointed. Why can’t I be anorexic instead? That would be so cool, and think of the money I would save.

There is no need for alarm. I know this will pass as it always does. I am not dead yet and it has been much, much worse. I have woke up on the bathroom floor with glass everywhere unable to stand – only crawl to the bed using one arm to pull myself. There was a time in 2005 that I was convinced that suicide is absolutely impossible. Sure, if you are Heath Ledger and have friends like Mary Kate or Ashley with unethical doctors you can do it. But the doctors I go to seem to want you to have some kind of real problem. They don’t give out Oxycontin willy nilly. Truly, who do you have to know to get some Xanax in this town?

Anyway, I will wake up from this in a week or so and be happy and full of life. I will be back to making plans for Thursday or Friday night. I will be excited to make a dish to pass for the Super Bowl party and probably planning to get my hair done and maybe even call a friend to chit chat. But for now, I sit here unable to explain why and waiting for the day that it becomes a joke like all the days before this one.

Knocking some sense?

January 21, 2009

To be clear, my head hurts all of the time. I am on four medications to quell the headaches, but they really don’t work. I don’t say anything because one of the medications has caused me to lose about 20 pounds. Since Friday, I have been trying to count the times I have severely hit my head. Hit it so hard the pain lasts for days, sometimes weeks. I hit it that hard last Friday. I knocked it on a bar that was holding hangers near the sink at the Red Roof Inn in Toledo, OH. It hurts. It hurts to the touch. I think I remember the first time I was knocked out. I fell out of the tree in the back yard of Linda Heller’s house. Linda’s mom, Betty was our babysitter. She was probably the first real bitch I ever met. She treated my sister and like trash. Plus, there were always cigarette butts in their toilet, that was gross.Anyway, I fell out of their tree and hit my head and was knocked out.

Then, there was the time the wind blew the door of my car into my head at the gas station and the time I walked into a jagged metal sign (shaped like a golf green sign i.e. hole #9) at the Grand Ledge Country Club. That one caused my head to bleed like a hose on high for a long time.

Last New Years, I slipped and fell on the dance floor of Mac’s Bar and I wasn’t even dancing, I was simply trying to walk out the door. That incident was embarrassing too because I was wearing a skirt, no underwear and tights. Yikes – Happy New Year. 2008 sucked anyway.

Certainly the worst hit was on August 30 of 1994 when I was hit by a car. Everyone knows this story. First day of school, junior year at MSU on my way to my second class. I had just left Affect and Self Esteem (ha!) Morgan Elise Benedict from Chelsea or some other “C” city in South Michigan hit me in her bright red convertable Mustang. My face smashed through her windshield. That one took awhile to get over. My face hasn’t been the same since.

I really want to see what a headache looks like. I have had several MRI’s. I am tired of talking about it. So, this is it. The final word on the subject. Period.