Hey there internet - all 4 of you -
I have apparently been the biggest slacker of all time when it comes to my writing this past month. It would be one thing had I been working on the memoir, and that's why I've been remiss in writing for the blog, but no. That is not the case. I just haven't been writing much at all for the past month.
Maybe that's part of the problem with my "trapped, icky, panicky feeling" that I attempted to fight off all day today, with little success. It's that feeling that I would do just about anything to escape. I contained it pretty well in front of others, but it was definitely creeping today.
I went back to Open Door today - the sliding fee medical clinic here in town. I've been sick since Valentine's Day, when I woke up with a sore throat but powered through to sing that duet with my friend Ocho at the Hope Interfaith Center that day. After that, however, my voice got all raspy and funky and I really haven't been able to sing since. I tried to do karaoke a few times maybe 2 weeks ago, but by the time I was on the last song I had chosen, my voice was pretty much a cracking mess. That was that. Maybe 1 1/2 to 2 weeks after the day I woke up with the sore throat, I went to Open Door for the first time. I was told I had an acute upper respiratory infection and prescribed some pretty hardcore antibiotics for 10 days to kick it out.
It refused to vacate.
I'm on probably week 5 of this illness now, and it's moved completely from my head to my lungs and although I don't feel terrible, my cough is quite impressive. I went back today, at the request of my parents, and was told that I now have pneumonia in my left lung - but the right lung sounds clear. The doctor seemed puzzled that the 10 days of augmentin didn't fix things, and she actually "suspects whooping cough", so I'm now on the Z-pack - another 5 days of a DIFFERENT antibiotic.
Whooping Cough? Didn't that disease die before I was born?
Apparently not.
The biggest bummer is not that I'm still sick, because honestly - I really don't feel all that physically awful. Perhaps I'm simply used to feeling off, as it were, so this is no big deal to me. The biggest bummer is actually that it's March and it's wet out, which means Lyric's pasture has plenty of mud for him to roll in, which means there is almost always a handsome yet crusty mud coated horse when I go see him to brush out. Anyone who has ever brushed mass amounts of dried mud out of an animal, particularly such a tall one, knows that the dust from the animal being groomed will inevitably be all over the person doing the grooming. I've never had a problem with this fact - I quite enjoy the smell of the ponies. My lungs, however, are not pleased with the inhalation of the small but potent clouds of horse dirt I deliver pretty much every day.
Since I didn't get out to see my man Lyric yesterday, I really wanted to make sure to see him today. He's a sensitive guy and gets quite hurt and offended if I don't see him for 2 days in a row. Seriously. I've never met such an expressive horse. Not only do I get the rump pointed at me if I fail to live up to his expectations, but he will also refuse to walk next to me AND he refuses to eat my treats that I offer. When I missed seeing him for 4 days in a row once, and I tried to make it up to him with food, I got the VERY DISTINCT message from him that he did not care so much about the peace offering. In my head I heard "I don't want your damn treats. I want your TIME. You cannot buy my love, lady. Where the hell have you been?"
I have not missed many days since then, although it does occasionally happen. Anyway - I did not get a chance to see him yesterday, but the previous several days we had been getting closer and closer, so I didn't want to risk another set back with his trust. I promised my mom that I would not groom him and that I would come home after the barn (instead of the open mic that I wanted to go to tonight), and I went out to hug my horse.
In my world, there is nothing more soothing than the sound of Lyric munching his hay, the feel of his inquisitive and tactile lips searching for the treats he knows are in my hoodie pocket, the sight of those giant hot chocolate eyes and the smell. The glorious smell of hay, shavings, leather and horse. It's most definitely the cure for almost everything that ails me.
Oddly enough, it didn't really work so well tonight. He was happy to see me, and he drooled water on my pants and sweatshirt after every sip he took while I was there, and he tousled my hair when I crouched down with my face in my arms, crying for no discernible reason. It actually made me cry harder. I don't even know why I was crying in the first place, much less any reason that his love would intensify that overwhelming sadness in my heart.
Is it easier for me to let down my guard when I'm with him instead of any bipeds? I honestly don't have an answer, or even a solid inkling. I want to believe that I cried in Lyric's stall because it was the best place for me to release my emotions - a place I always feel safe. That doesn't quite feel correct though. I mean, I absolutely do always feel safe in his stall with him, but that doesn't really hit home for tonight for some reason. I've only cried in front of him one other time, and that was the night he was gifted to me.
I have no memory of any tangible thoughts that were swirling through my brain at that time. I was curious and vaguely concerned to find him sweaty when I got there, even though it wasn't hot and he had been inside for probably an hour by then. That certainly wouldn't cause tears, though. All I remember is being flooded by that horrible feeling. The sensation that I was drowning, that no matter how healthy I get or how far I've come - I'm still crazy at my core. I still struggle to keep the self-destructive urges at bay. I still have bloody images flash through my mind when I'm having a hard day and I catch a glimpse of one of my arms, full of old scars, or I realize that I've once again been absentmindedly tracing the X's I carved into my chest above my heart several years ago.
Most days, my scars and memories don't trigger me or even bother me in the least. There are still times, however, when a memory overtakes my current situation and pulls me back to my apartment in Powderhorn Park, or my house in Montgomery, or my ex's apartment near Loring Park in Minneapolis. That was the apartment where my wrist was broken and only a few hours later I was curled up next to him, sore wrist propped up on the pillow in front of my tear-streaked stoned face. My apartment was the scene of so many cuts, several breakdowns, and horrible fights. The house in Montgomery. Absolute Hell.
I suppose it's to be expected that I will continue to have rough days. This is one of the ongoing issues I've struggled with, actually, so I'm not entirely sure why I'm sincerely surprised. I am though. I realized years ago that my memory for feelings is pretty shitty. In my mind, when I'm living in Hell, I cannot for anything in the Universe remember what it feels like to be happy, content, or even neutral. I'm learning to intellectually remember that I've felt otherwise, but it never convinces my soul when I most need it. Likewise, when I'm living in euphoria or am even vaguely happy, I have zero memories of that painful burn that runs from the center of my chest down to the deepest hidden cavern in my gut. Even reading my own words from other times in my life doesn't usually remind me that I've been through these cycles repeatedly and that it's quite possible that this is going to continue for the rest of my life.
Wow. To live this way is truly NOT for the meek. It's pretty exhausting and intense, actually. If I had any sort of choice in the matter, I don't know that I'd choose to be me. Maybe I'd surprise myself and pick to be Q after all, but I'm not confident about that. I know I exhaust people at times. I know for a fact that I've scared the shit out of several friends and made so many damn men nervous. Is there really any wonder I have huge abandonment issues? I think the only person that I've talked to consistently, that I've lost my shit in front of (many, many times), who has NEVER taken a break from me is my mother. Dad has never put me on even hold either, but it's Mom that I unload on most of the time. It's not easy being someone that many others can only ingest in carefully measured doses. They get to go home and return to less intensity. This shit is pretty much a constant in my brain. The only actual breaks I get from my barrage of crazy are when I'm sound asleep or high.
I AM EXHAUSTED.
And now I have the freaking whooping cough, or pneumonia at the very best. I did some superficial research on this whole whooping cough thing and apparently I'm maybe half through the course of the sickness at best. Great. That's another entire month at least that I'll be struggling with this cough. I hope these new antibiotics kick some major illness ass.
I suppose I should go to bed then, eh?
Love,
~Q~
