Where to start...
I suppose an introduction, and a piece of advice, are in order. I'm about to narrate the past months of my life (in a manner as resumed as possible but going into the details I found most relevant) in order to give you, the attent and kind reader, an idea of what I'm going through. They say that all in life is relevant, and not too long ago I got told suffering purifies. Maybe I'm victimizing too much. I should forgive and forget, but for the life of me, I can't, and here I find myself, even more broken than ever before, without anyone or anything to hold on to, to ask for help, or to get me through this. I should also warn, I've already taken my sleeping pills because I've been sleepless for the past few weeks, only managing short naps during daytime, so my spelling is bound to be off at points, and I'm going to ramble a lot too, as I will be paying little attention to self editing on the go. Anyhow, and without further ado, let's see if getting this off my chest can, for the sake of it, help me in any way. I know that, at least, any feedback, any at all, will be well appreciated.
I suppose we can track down the origin of my current state to Christmas 2009. I had been invited to spend some days over at my best friend's house (Brendan), since he was visiting his parents in Spain (I'm spanish, he's english, we've known each other since high school, a british institution in my province). When I got there, I found out he hadn't come alone in the plane. His sister (Kat, short for Kathleen), had come over too. I've been in love many times before that, and I can't help myself when it comes to that. I fall too easily in love and I'm pained greatly when it's not corresponded, not to mention that I used to be incredibly shy and now I'm incredibly indifferent towards people. In my adolescencehood, I've told a total of 15 different persons what I felt (Yes, boys and girls, I am in that dire of a need, and please refrain from saying that solitude isn't enough to make you appreciate the person, not the physique, and to try and get as little love, or what could pass for love, as you possibly can). All of them have rejected me, and only one hasn't done so incredibly violently, though on reflection, it might've been for the best.
At any rate, after Kat left Spain, we kept in contact over the internet. I know it's paradoxical, but I became very attached to her. You see, shortly after Christmas, my mother was diagnosed with cancer, and me being the only child left at home, with a father that, much as he tried, couldn't bring himself to help my mother without falling into constant, and violent, arguments with her, most of the weight of the tidal wave fell on me. Plus, I was, at the time, attempting to recover from some pretty terrible grades in my previous examinations in order to end my baccalaureate with something of a decent grade, and the situation at home wasn't improved by the economical crisis that overinvestment into my father's business and my mother's credit cards had brought upon us, and that forced us to tighten our belts. LITERALLY. I had to juggle my studies, which I completely despised, with my musical education and being member in a band, which, besides Kat, was my only way of releasing steam, all while trying to remain healthy through sporting (which a series of health conditions have always made hard for me to keep fit).
Yet somehow, I found the strength to get through it all, because at the end of the day, I got to chat with her. Sometimes for minutes, others for hours, and at times, it seemed to never end. I can't speak for her, God knows I wish I could, but I was falling in love. I was falling in love hard. Here was someone who was actually caring for me without expecting anything in return, just because. It was something new to me, completely shocking, and it felt great. I felt that, so long as I could keep her memory within me, nothing would harm me. I felt immortal. But above all, I was happy. For the first time in my life, I, too, was helping, caring, and loving people for the sake of it. And that, too, felt great, especially when, before that, I had been a bitter, anti-social, hollier-than-thou brat with little redeeming value. I thought I had no reason for being kind to a world that had never done me right, health and mental conditions aside, but related to how my teenage years played out. By March that year, I opened my heart again, this time sure that, regardless of what the answer might be, I was not doing it to obtain anything in return, but rather, just because I wanted to let her know that she mattered more to me than the very air I breathed. I was a new man, or so I wanted to believe.
Because then, it all crashed down. Kat disappeared. For most of the month of May, we didn't get to communicate. I believe it was due to her moving to a new flat and lacking connection to the internet, but the case being that my only support in life, which I had taken for granted, simply disappeared when my exams where underway, my band was starting to record our first work, and my mum was going through the worse phase of chemotherapy. I tried to stay strong, and somehow, I pulled through the stress. Not, however, unscarred, and then, when Kat came over to Spain to come and see Metallica in Rock in Rio Madrid 2010 with me as her cohort, all she found was a broken of a man that couldn't even bring himself to try and be cheerful for the event. I knew something unrelated was going through her mind too, but I was too scared to ask, or perhaps, too centered on my own pain. The trip to Madrid, and then the concert, was awkward for the both of us to say the least. And yet, I still remember feeling luckier and happier than ever, just to be with her again, to share her company, and to be able to look into her eyes again. When we got back to Madrid, she'd agreed to come see me play at a gig I had the day after the concert. Fool of a man, I rushed out to the stage to find she wasn't there. For the days after that, and when she did pick up the phone, she answered in short phrases, and was always too busy to meet up before going to England again. I didn't understand why, but, effectively, the night she left, a warm, moonlit evening, I attempted suicide. I know I was a fool, especially since I, of course, was too much of a coward to drive my letter opener more than a few centimetres into the right side of my stomach. After bleeding a little, I cowered, and sutured the wound myself. And this would come to bite me in the ass later.
Thank the heavens, I found a summer job, and I managed to keep Kat's memory buried enough to avoid them from being a blight upon my existence. I started looking for other kind souls that would give me another chance to be happy, to no avail. On September, I was mostly back to the old me, with an edge of indifference towards the world and a dash of icy malevolence towards anything that displeased me, and just in time to start a career I had no interest in, which I was coerced into by my parents, rather than kicking me out of home. I breezed through the days, which all went by undistiguinshably, blurring into one another. And then, Christmas 2010, I was forced to abandon my flat, again, due to economical reasons, and go back to living with my mother. To the house where, on every room, on every hall, I saw Kat. I fell sick the very day I arrived, and for months I had poor health and a crushing fatigue, together with a psoriasis that was getting more acute by the day, to the point where it started affecting my hands, causing me unbearable pain when playing guitar, the only thing I felt like doing at the time. It had also dawned on me that, if my parents were unable to pay for my flat, it also meant that I'd have to drop my career and start working, something that would be a relief, as I've always wanted to manage my own economy, something very hard when you're working weekend shifts as a waiter for your mother while trying to go through a career that doesn't motivate you. Things weren't going grandly, for sure, but I was getting by.
And suddenly, please welcome the star of the show back on stage. Kat told me she was coming to Spain, and that she was coming to stay. She said she wanted to travel, but her real reasons I'd only know later on. After half-assedly passing most of the subjects of my first year in uni, Kat, a uni partner, good friend, love interest (That's the same person, just in case, that goes by the name of Max) and me agreed to go see Turisas play live for free in my neighbouring town (Yes, I was as surprised as you are. They were also pretty good). And I was absolutely thrilled to see Kat again, recovered and, by default, much stronger of a person than the 17 year old me. We had the time of our lives and that night, I entered a state of grace like I'd never known before, simply because the person I hold most dear was back in my life, and she was enjoying my company. Shortly after that, we agreed to meet and catch up on how our lives had been. I told her all my many misfortunes and she, in turn, told me hers. I think it would be disrespectful to speak of them here, but just so that you get the picture: she's on Prozac now. I felt the need, I desperately felt like I had to help her out. I cared too much not to. And only too late did I realize, I was never the one, because, sure enough, she didn't even need me as a friend anymore. I wonder if she ever did.
Like I said, she'd had the pleasure of meeting my friend, Maximilian Schneider, on the Turisas concert. And, curse my luck, she fell in love with him. After some heavy drinking in the beach, I had to sit through them two having sex (loudly) for over 3 hours, whilst I drank down gallon after gallon of water to sober up. When they were finally done, I laid down on the sofa, and how I wish Kat hadn't come looking for me to see if I was doing fine. Which, much to my disgrace, I was. I've always been naturally good with alcohol, downing poison like no one's business without little to no repercussion, and that night, regardless of having drinked a lot, I was still perfectly conscious of all that was happening. I went to sleep in the same room as them, situation awkward as it was. After a while, I tried leaving to catch the first train, too hurt to even think about being in the same room as them but they wouldn't let me. They hugged me, and their combined weight kept me down long enough to fall asleep. A few days later, and after Kat's boyfriend (also called Max) came to visit from England, days during which I got to make my mind and think that, if I wasn't to be the one, I could at least be her support, her friend, to any extent, and come what may, Kat, Schneider, and me had a party, this time at my house. Everyone in the house at the time saw the things the three of us were doing, flirting rather openly, and so came out the secret of my bisexuality, even though in the end I was the one that gladly stepped aside when they decided to have sex in the pool whilst I waited outside for them with towels. That night, me and Kat slept side by side in bed. Or rather she did, whilst I stayed awake, staring at her sleeping frame, feeling her hair amidst my fingers, and veiling over her sleep, always respecting her wish that we'd remain nothing more than friends, always keeping in mind that she didn't want to have anything with me, less she ruined our friendship.
Shortly afterwards, my relationship with my mother had deteriorated so much that I saw no option but to leave the house for some days. Since I had already agreed to stay over at Max's after a gig we'd agreed to go see, I had a place to stay for the night, but then, when Max's mother, Dorothy, caught wind of my situation, she did more than just offer the house for the night. She offered to house me for life. And I thought, why not? I had nothing to lose, and that way, I could be closer to both Max and Kat. The next few weeks went by in a blur of crazed, alcohol filled nights, and long, relaxing, summer days, were, regardless of feeling sickly jealous of Max and Kat's luck, I still managed to put aside my selfish wants for the greater good of the three of us. All along, I believed I was doing the right thing, and it felt more than right. I was happy again. Hell had ended for me. For a short period of time. Until I fell sick, at least. Without knowing it, mortally sick.
It started with the nightmares. One night, the three of us were merrily drinking by the shore, as was our usual routine, and I fell asleep in the sand. And nigtmares came to me again, after having been absent from my life for so long. And I began to feel fear again, because my nightmares have always been premonitory, this time more clearly than ever. In them, I saw myself losing everything I then had. I had to down a whole bottle of straight, hot, cheap vodka, to calm down. And when I woke up that morning to walk the dogs, I could barely move. I had a massive stroke of pain in my side, right where I'd stabbed myself over a year ago. Over the days, I started to fall progressively and painfully sick, being unable to feed, throwing up even water, having stomach pains all the time, all while the sharp, distinctive pain on my stab wound began to grow and to manifest as a lump under my skin. I fought through it all, the sickness, the pain, the nightmares, the fear, the weakness. All of it, until we had to move houses because it was clear the small flat the Schneiders lived in was too small to house me too. At first, everything in the house moving went fine, and I was enjoying a spell of strength in my illness, during which I managed to move the heavier part of the furniture and help out with the painting. However, after that, I was so weak I could barely even work on the house for more than an hour without feeling weak and faint, and of course, I couldn't stomach anything heavier than toast bread with oil without either throwing up or feeling crippling pains. To top it all, I had grown ever more jealous of Max and Kat, and doubtful of the righteousness of my actions, as well as fearing for my immediate future. It came to a point where I couldn't bear their presence. It got so bad that one day, while painting what was going to be, and never was, my room in the new house, I fainted, partly due to the pain and partly due to the fatigue, and when Max came in to wake me up, I had to rush to the bathroom, nauseated. When I finally got out, I went straight to my room again to finish painting, but Max got in my way, insisting that I went to lay down. After a short struggle, he locked me out of the house, and told me to stay in the basement until I'd recovered. Instead, I went walking into town, for a long while, until I came back and continued working all the same. Later on that week and after working myself to the point of spontaneous fever outbursts, I went to sleep early, and when I managed to fall asleep, in walked Kat.
I couldn't stand it. Just hearing her voice down the corridor was too much for me. So I got on some clothes and left the house for a walk, set on staring at the sea from the cliffs for a while, and maybe go for a dive, just for the sake of the rush. And then it struck me that the gang of friends me and Max had in his town where out drinking that night. So I thought, why not? I had the last ibuprophen on my wallet and off I went to join them. I drank myself to literal sickness, and the next day I was sick for most of the morning, until the Schneiders organized a family meeting, to scold me for my behaviour of the recent days, all while in front of my father, and threatening to kick me out if I didn't live up to the rules. After that, I went for dinner with my dad, with whom I'd been keeping a healthy relationship, and after having a nap at his house, I woke up so sick I begged him to drive me to hospital.
And that's when it all crashed down, where the wake up call came. I was diagnosed with a terminal ileum Crohn's disease (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crohn%27s_disease for reference) which had opened an ulcer on my intestine, and from which a fistula had spawned and attached to the inner wall of my skin, and apparently, it was forming a collection of toxins that, had it ruptured, would've provoked me a muti-organic infection, or sepsis (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sepsis). I was close, no doubt, and after spending two weeks in hospital and being released with little more than a treatment based on prednisone, I tried to re-orient my life, and was actually more motivated than ever to do so, even with the knowledge of a cronic disease, and thanking the spirits for a second chance after having been, unknowingly, so close to death. Furthermore, I'd cut ties with Max and Kat, quite cleanly at that, and with that done with, I could finally focus on being happy being me, helping my father by working for him, my mother by helping with a grandmother suffering from Alzheimer's, and promising to help my sister once she gave birth (which, casually, has occured today. A thought for her and young Albert).
And then, I fell sick again. One day, the lump was gone, and I had fever again. When I got up from bed, I felt a massive blood rush to my head that refused to go down. I got up from the toilet and I did not hear the water when it flushed, even though I saw it through the incipient blindness that became total obscurity as I clinged on to the door frame, scared for my life as light and sound faded, only to return as I was falling down on top of my leg, which to this day is still sprained. I remained lying, staring at the ceiling, and after recovering a bit, I dragged myself back to bed. Shortly 5 minutes after that, my brother came back home (My father, him and me share a flat now) to find me pale, feverish and trembling. And in the 5 minute span, I called Kat, terrified as I was I wouldn't get a chance to apologize. Sadly, when her and Max got to hospital, I was already in the ICU. Apparently, the collection of toxins had indeed burst, and my pancreas was powerfully inflamed. I was operated on immediately to clean up the shit, and was interned to follow a treatment on antibiotics. And then, Saturday that week, my dears came to see me.
How strange, how they hadn't changed a bit, while for me, everything was different. After they left, with a bittersweet taste on my mouth, I couldn't sleep at night, and have been unable to since then. I keep thinking things could've been different had I acted different. I know dwelling on the past is pointless, but what else can I do, when future seems so bleak? I was hospitalized a third time after getting the same symptoms as last time: partial blindness and deafness, to find that the operation wound was infected. This being doubly dangerous considering that I had started a new treatment on Infliximab (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Infliximab). The doctors decided to drive a catheter to the sight of the pus collection and drain it artificially. Without anaesthetics. I had to endure being punctured several times in the intestine and through the muscle, where once I'd stabbed myself to quasi death. The irony is brutal, to say the least. In summary, I've spent almost two months in hospital, wasting away my life, and my hopes for the future, as my options seemed every time fewer and more disheartening. On top of that, I find myself every time more alone, unable to rely on those I once called friends, too scared of how they will act, favouring the knowledge that they'll be better off without me, without worrying.
I'm lost. I find myself forced to live idly for God knows how long while I recover. I sit now back home, sleepless at 5 o'clock in the morning, desperate for an uncompromised word of kindness. I'm broken, unable to trust in myself to perform even the most basic of tasks, and I find it harder to play guitar every day. I'm losing the will to live again, and I don't want it to happen, not so shortly after I had everything I'd ever wanted, yet knowing I literally no longer have the strength to fight for it.
Thoughts. Opinions. I don't know what I want, but I want it anyways, and it's all welcome, whether you're willing to care or sneer at my relative misfortune. There are people out there who have it worse. But honestly, I find it hard to care when I can't even feel sorry for myself, yet feel so destroyed and defeated nonetheless.
Please. And thank you.
I suppose an introduction, and a piece of advice, are in order. I'm about to narrate the past months of my life (in a manner as resumed as possible but going into the details I found most relevant) in order to give you, the attent and kind reader, an idea of what I'm going through. They say that all in life is relevant, and not too long ago I got told suffering purifies. Maybe I'm victimizing too much. I should forgive and forget, but for the life of me, I can't, and here I find myself, even more broken than ever before, without anyone or anything to hold on to, to ask for help, or to get me through this. I should also warn, I've already taken my sleeping pills because I've been sleepless for the past few weeks, only managing short naps during daytime, so my spelling is bound to be off at points, and I'm going to ramble a lot too, as I will be paying little attention to self editing on the go. Anyhow, and without further ado, let's see if getting this off my chest can, for the sake of it, help me in any way. I know that, at least, any feedback, any at all, will be well appreciated.
I suppose we can track down the origin of my current state to Christmas 2009. I had been invited to spend some days over at my best friend's house (Brendan), since he was visiting his parents in Spain (I'm spanish, he's english, we've known each other since high school, a british institution in my province). When I got there, I found out he hadn't come alone in the plane. His sister (Kat, short for Kathleen), had come over too. I've been in love many times before that, and I can't help myself when it comes to that. I fall too easily in love and I'm pained greatly when it's not corresponded, not to mention that I used to be incredibly shy and now I'm incredibly indifferent towards people. In my adolescencehood, I've told a total of 15 different persons what I felt (Yes, boys and girls, I am in that dire of a need, and please refrain from saying that solitude isn't enough to make you appreciate the person, not the physique, and to try and get as little love, or what could pass for love, as you possibly can). All of them have rejected me, and only one hasn't done so incredibly violently, though on reflection, it might've been for the best.
At any rate, after Kat left Spain, we kept in contact over the internet. I know it's paradoxical, but I became very attached to her. You see, shortly after Christmas, my mother was diagnosed with cancer, and me being the only child left at home, with a father that, much as he tried, couldn't bring himself to help my mother without falling into constant, and violent, arguments with her, most of the weight of the tidal wave fell on me. Plus, I was, at the time, attempting to recover from some pretty terrible grades in my previous examinations in order to end my baccalaureate with something of a decent grade, and the situation at home wasn't improved by the economical crisis that overinvestment into my father's business and my mother's credit cards had brought upon us, and that forced us to tighten our belts. LITERALLY. I had to juggle my studies, which I completely despised, with my musical education and being member in a band, which, besides Kat, was my only way of releasing steam, all while trying to remain healthy through sporting (which a series of health conditions have always made hard for me to keep fit).
Yet somehow, I found the strength to get through it all, because at the end of the day, I got to chat with her. Sometimes for minutes, others for hours, and at times, it seemed to never end. I can't speak for her, God knows I wish I could, but I was falling in love. I was falling in love hard. Here was someone who was actually caring for me without expecting anything in return, just because. It was something new to me, completely shocking, and it felt great. I felt that, so long as I could keep her memory within me, nothing would harm me. I felt immortal. But above all, I was happy. For the first time in my life, I, too, was helping, caring, and loving people for the sake of it. And that, too, felt great, especially when, before that, I had been a bitter, anti-social, hollier-than-thou brat with little redeeming value. I thought I had no reason for being kind to a world that had never done me right, health and mental conditions aside, but related to how my teenage years played out. By March that year, I opened my heart again, this time sure that, regardless of what the answer might be, I was not doing it to obtain anything in return, but rather, just because I wanted to let her know that she mattered more to me than the very air I breathed. I was a new man, or so I wanted to believe.
Because then, it all crashed down. Kat disappeared. For most of the month of May, we didn't get to communicate. I believe it was due to her moving to a new flat and lacking connection to the internet, but the case being that my only support in life, which I had taken for granted, simply disappeared when my exams where underway, my band was starting to record our first work, and my mum was going through the worse phase of chemotherapy. I tried to stay strong, and somehow, I pulled through the stress. Not, however, unscarred, and then, when Kat came over to Spain to come and see Metallica in Rock in Rio Madrid 2010 with me as her cohort, all she found was a broken of a man that couldn't even bring himself to try and be cheerful for the event. I knew something unrelated was going through her mind too, but I was too scared to ask, or perhaps, too centered on my own pain. The trip to Madrid, and then the concert, was awkward for the both of us to say the least. And yet, I still remember feeling luckier and happier than ever, just to be with her again, to share her company, and to be able to look into her eyes again. When we got back to Madrid, she'd agreed to come see me play at a gig I had the day after the concert. Fool of a man, I rushed out to the stage to find she wasn't there. For the days after that, and when she did pick up the phone, she answered in short phrases, and was always too busy to meet up before going to England again. I didn't understand why, but, effectively, the night she left, a warm, moonlit evening, I attempted suicide. I know I was a fool, especially since I, of course, was too much of a coward to drive my letter opener more than a few centimetres into the right side of my stomach. After bleeding a little, I cowered, and sutured the wound myself. And this would come to bite me in the ass later.
Thank the heavens, I found a summer job, and I managed to keep Kat's memory buried enough to avoid them from being a blight upon my existence. I started looking for other kind souls that would give me another chance to be happy, to no avail. On September, I was mostly back to the old me, with an edge of indifference towards the world and a dash of icy malevolence towards anything that displeased me, and just in time to start a career I had no interest in, which I was coerced into by my parents, rather than kicking me out of home. I breezed through the days, which all went by undistiguinshably, blurring into one another. And then, Christmas 2010, I was forced to abandon my flat, again, due to economical reasons, and go back to living with my mother. To the house where, on every room, on every hall, I saw Kat. I fell sick the very day I arrived, and for months I had poor health and a crushing fatigue, together with a psoriasis that was getting more acute by the day, to the point where it started affecting my hands, causing me unbearable pain when playing guitar, the only thing I felt like doing at the time. It had also dawned on me that, if my parents were unable to pay for my flat, it also meant that I'd have to drop my career and start working, something that would be a relief, as I've always wanted to manage my own economy, something very hard when you're working weekend shifts as a waiter for your mother while trying to go through a career that doesn't motivate you. Things weren't going grandly, for sure, but I was getting by.
And suddenly, please welcome the star of the show back on stage. Kat told me she was coming to Spain, and that she was coming to stay. She said she wanted to travel, but her real reasons I'd only know later on. After half-assedly passing most of the subjects of my first year in uni, Kat, a uni partner, good friend, love interest (That's the same person, just in case, that goes by the name of Max) and me agreed to go see Turisas play live for free in my neighbouring town (Yes, I was as surprised as you are. They were also pretty good). And I was absolutely thrilled to see Kat again, recovered and, by default, much stronger of a person than the 17 year old me. We had the time of our lives and that night, I entered a state of grace like I'd never known before, simply because the person I hold most dear was back in my life, and she was enjoying my company. Shortly after that, we agreed to meet and catch up on how our lives had been. I told her all my many misfortunes and she, in turn, told me hers. I think it would be disrespectful to speak of them here, but just so that you get the picture: she's on Prozac now. I felt the need, I desperately felt like I had to help her out. I cared too much not to. And only too late did I realize, I was never the one, because, sure enough, she didn't even need me as a friend anymore. I wonder if she ever did.
Like I said, she'd had the pleasure of meeting my friend, Maximilian Schneider, on the Turisas concert. And, curse my luck, she fell in love with him. After some heavy drinking in the beach, I had to sit through them two having sex (loudly) for over 3 hours, whilst I drank down gallon after gallon of water to sober up. When they were finally done, I laid down on the sofa, and how I wish Kat hadn't come looking for me to see if I was doing fine. Which, much to my disgrace, I was. I've always been naturally good with alcohol, downing poison like no one's business without little to no repercussion, and that night, regardless of having drinked a lot, I was still perfectly conscious of all that was happening. I went to sleep in the same room as them, situation awkward as it was. After a while, I tried leaving to catch the first train, too hurt to even think about being in the same room as them but they wouldn't let me. They hugged me, and their combined weight kept me down long enough to fall asleep. A few days later, and after Kat's boyfriend (also called Max) came to visit from England, days during which I got to make my mind and think that, if I wasn't to be the one, I could at least be her support, her friend, to any extent, and come what may, Kat, Schneider, and me had a party, this time at my house. Everyone in the house at the time saw the things the three of us were doing, flirting rather openly, and so came out the secret of my bisexuality, even though in the end I was the one that gladly stepped aside when they decided to have sex in the pool whilst I waited outside for them with towels. That night, me and Kat slept side by side in bed. Or rather she did, whilst I stayed awake, staring at her sleeping frame, feeling her hair amidst my fingers, and veiling over her sleep, always respecting her wish that we'd remain nothing more than friends, always keeping in mind that she didn't want to have anything with me, less she ruined our friendship.
Shortly afterwards, my relationship with my mother had deteriorated so much that I saw no option but to leave the house for some days. Since I had already agreed to stay over at Max's after a gig we'd agreed to go see, I had a place to stay for the night, but then, when Max's mother, Dorothy, caught wind of my situation, she did more than just offer the house for the night. She offered to house me for life. And I thought, why not? I had nothing to lose, and that way, I could be closer to both Max and Kat. The next few weeks went by in a blur of crazed, alcohol filled nights, and long, relaxing, summer days, were, regardless of feeling sickly jealous of Max and Kat's luck, I still managed to put aside my selfish wants for the greater good of the three of us. All along, I believed I was doing the right thing, and it felt more than right. I was happy again. Hell had ended for me. For a short period of time. Until I fell sick, at least. Without knowing it, mortally sick.
It started with the nightmares. One night, the three of us were merrily drinking by the shore, as was our usual routine, and I fell asleep in the sand. And nigtmares came to me again, after having been absent from my life for so long. And I began to feel fear again, because my nightmares have always been premonitory, this time more clearly than ever. In them, I saw myself losing everything I then had. I had to down a whole bottle of straight, hot, cheap vodka, to calm down. And when I woke up that morning to walk the dogs, I could barely move. I had a massive stroke of pain in my side, right where I'd stabbed myself over a year ago. Over the days, I started to fall progressively and painfully sick, being unable to feed, throwing up even water, having stomach pains all the time, all while the sharp, distinctive pain on my stab wound began to grow and to manifest as a lump under my skin. I fought through it all, the sickness, the pain, the nightmares, the fear, the weakness. All of it, until we had to move houses because it was clear the small flat the Schneiders lived in was too small to house me too. At first, everything in the house moving went fine, and I was enjoying a spell of strength in my illness, during which I managed to move the heavier part of the furniture and help out with the painting. However, after that, I was so weak I could barely even work on the house for more than an hour without feeling weak and faint, and of course, I couldn't stomach anything heavier than toast bread with oil without either throwing up or feeling crippling pains. To top it all, I had grown ever more jealous of Max and Kat, and doubtful of the righteousness of my actions, as well as fearing for my immediate future. It came to a point where I couldn't bear their presence. It got so bad that one day, while painting what was going to be, and never was, my room in the new house, I fainted, partly due to the pain and partly due to the fatigue, and when Max came in to wake me up, I had to rush to the bathroom, nauseated. When I finally got out, I went straight to my room again to finish painting, but Max got in my way, insisting that I went to lay down. After a short struggle, he locked me out of the house, and told me to stay in the basement until I'd recovered. Instead, I went walking into town, for a long while, until I came back and continued working all the same. Later on that week and after working myself to the point of spontaneous fever outbursts, I went to sleep early, and when I managed to fall asleep, in walked Kat.
I couldn't stand it. Just hearing her voice down the corridor was too much for me. So I got on some clothes and left the house for a walk, set on staring at the sea from the cliffs for a while, and maybe go for a dive, just for the sake of the rush. And then it struck me that the gang of friends me and Max had in his town where out drinking that night. So I thought, why not? I had the last ibuprophen on my wallet and off I went to join them. I drank myself to literal sickness, and the next day I was sick for most of the morning, until the Schneiders organized a family meeting, to scold me for my behaviour of the recent days, all while in front of my father, and threatening to kick me out if I didn't live up to the rules. After that, I went for dinner with my dad, with whom I'd been keeping a healthy relationship, and after having a nap at his house, I woke up so sick I begged him to drive me to hospital.
And that's when it all crashed down, where the wake up call came. I was diagnosed with a terminal ileum Crohn's disease (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crohn%27s_disease for reference) which had opened an ulcer on my intestine, and from which a fistula had spawned and attached to the inner wall of my skin, and apparently, it was forming a collection of toxins that, had it ruptured, would've provoked me a muti-organic infection, or sepsis (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sepsis). I was close, no doubt, and after spending two weeks in hospital and being released with little more than a treatment based on prednisone, I tried to re-orient my life, and was actually more motivated than ever to do so, even with the knowledge of a cronic disease, and thanking the spirits for a second chance after having been, unknowingly, so close to death. Furthermore, I'd cut ties with Max and Kat, quite cleanly at that, and with that done with, I could finally focus on being happy being me, helping my father by working for him, my mother by helping with a grandmother suffering from Alzheimer's, and promising to help my sister once she gave birth (which, casually, has occured today. A thought for her and young Albert).
And then, I fell sick again. One day, the lump was gone, and I had fever again. When I got up from bed, I felt a massive blood rush to my head that refused to go down. I got up from the toilet and I did not hear the water when it flushed, even though I saw it through the incipient blindness that became total obscurity as I clinged on to the door frame, scared for my life as light and sound faded, only to return as I was falling down on top of my leg, which to this day is still sprained. I remained lying, staring at the ceiling, and after recovering a bit, I dragged myself back to bed. Shortly 5 minutes after that, my brother came back home (My father, him and me share a flat now) to find me pale, feverish and trembling. And in the 5 minute span, I called Kat, terrified as I was I wouldn't get a chance to apologize. Sadly, when her and Max got to hospital, I was already in the ICU. Apparently, the collection of toxins had indeed burst, and my pancreas was powerfully inflamed. I was operated on immediately to clean up the shit, and was interned to follow a treatment on antibiotics. And then, Saturday that week, my dears came to see me.
How strange, how they hadn't changed a bit, while for me, everything was different. After they left, with a bittersweet taste on my mouth, I couldn't sleep at night, and have been unable to since then. I keep thinking things could've been different had I acted different. I know dwelling on the past is pointless, but what else can I do, when future seems so bleak? I was hospitalized a third time after getting the same symptoms as last time: partial blindness and deafness, to find that the operation wound was infected. This being doubly dangerous considering that I had started a new treatment on Infliximab (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Infliximab). The doctors decided to drive a catheter to the sight of the pus collection and drain it artificially. Without anaesthetics. I had to endure being punctured several times in the intestine and through the muscle, where once I'd stabbed myself to quasi death. The irony is brutal, to say the least. In summary, I've spent almost two months in hospital, wasting away my life, and my hopes for the future, as my options seemed every time fewer and more disheartening. On top of that, I find myself every time more alone, unable to rely on those I once called friends, too scared of how they will act, favouring the knowledge that they'll be better off without me, without worrying.
I'm lost. I find myself forced to live idly for God knows how long while I recover. I sit now back home, sleepless at 5 o'clock in the morning, desperate for an uncompromised word of kindness. I'm broken, unable to trust in myself to perform even the most basic of tasks, and I find it harder to play guitar every day. I'm losing the will to live again, and I don't want it to happen, not so shortly after I had everything I'd ever wanted, yet knowing I literally no longer have the strength to fight for it.
Thoughts. Opinions. I don't know what I want, but I want it anyways, and it's all welcome, whether you're willing to care or sneer at my relative misfortune. There are people out there who have it worse. But honestly, I find it hard to care when I can't even feel sorry for myself, yet feel so destroyed and defeated nonetheless.
Please. And thank you.
