I don't write this to be snide. I don't. But I'm not me, and I haven't been for awhile now. Seven days, as a matter of fact. The me I have become isn't the me I want to be. But this is me.
I got sick seven days ago, and it made me realize something. My life is out of control. And so am I. The things I do and the reasons I do them became unraveled when I altered my state of self neglect. I took the time to notice in between not sleeping and hacking up my insides, pouring them out with gusto. Regularity. In a way, becoming more aware of my breath and what it is I am.
When actions like "breathing" and "sleeping" were taken away from me the past seven days, I realized during my insomniac-haze that life is floating by. I am immersed in my own shit, like everyone else, surrounded by what I think my day entails. I am a moron.
Who am I to think that my life, my actions, and more importantly, that my inactions matter to anything outside my clouded fog of aimless lofting? Who am I to think that being sick changes anything, anyone, anytime? Who am I?
***And this is where I really go out there***
For seven days I have often wondered
Why my medicine-induced lack of slumber
Refused to take me out or under
Help me sleep
Help me breathe
Help me be
Help me, please.
For seven days, everything has seemed insurmountably large and overwhelming. I look at stairs with spite and hate. I can feel my temples when I talk. Last night I dreamed that I was suffocating.
Thank God I am an optimist.
That is who I am.