sometimes in the bustle i forget where i was. not but six years ago. purple gloved hands washing my body like i was a rack of dishes in a restaurant kitchen. stupid useless legs. resting on a shower chair. stupid useless body. not doing the things it was supposed to do. i remember it all in flashes. the visiting nurses with their lap top computers changing the dressings on my wounds. the way it felt to lay in bed and feel the blood trickling out of the drain they had shoved ten inches into my body. the way it throbbed every time i moved. the time the physical therapist told me i had the body of a swimmer as i did my round of leg lifts in bed. or mornings passed lifting arm weights because it was the only thing i could still do. it's hard to read. on all those drugs. it's hard to feel. when the world acts so bad. it's hard to remember. when your days are so terrifying.
i was terrified for so many years.
come back to now. and that damn scar tissue from my abdominal aorta tear is getting my down. it hurts to breath. i am not sleeping well. and it is hard to not be in a bitchy mood when this pain is so persistent in reminding you of the ways you failed to heal. the things that will always be wrong with you. and i don't have the energy now, for this. i am not going back to those regimes of drugs and shots and forced hospitalizations.
i would rather sit very still. i promise not to move.
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