WARNING: Upsetting rant ahead.
Yesterday I yelled at a guy for slapping me on the shoulder. Granted, he didn't mean it as an act of aggression, but it was the second time, he was a jerkwad, and my blood is thinner, as my friend DJ Southern Belltower notes, than 'onion juice.' Besides you shouldn't touch anyone, at anytime, really.
The fact is, I am terrified. Terrified.
I went to the hospital last week, because I had a blood clot in my leg. I knew as soon as I felt the pain in my calf, that I was doomed; anxiety set in, fear and anger. Lots and lots of anger.
I was in the hospital five or six days, depending on how you count them, getting my blood thinned, as well as removed from my body in great bruising quantity.
This sucker is still in my body, it is potentially mobile and can yet kill me. At least that is my reasonable belief.
When my lungs got clotted, at least I knew they were already there, safely and surely keeping me from breathing.
Now, I don't know if the shortness of breath and tiredness and achiness are clot-related, hospital-inactivity related, or depression and anxiety-related.
I feel like a fucking ticking time bomb. And I am afraid. And I am furious.
I cannot manifest vulnerability without becoming defensive and angry. And I am very much both right now. I don't know what to eat, drink, whether to stand up or sit down. I don't want companionship but I am terrified to be alone. I don't know who to unload all this to; people get bits and pieces, if they don't get torn to bits and pieces.
Ticking. Time. Bomb.
But I will not stop going to my Delaney class. Because if I dropped dead in the middle of a fantastic, truthful scene, played to the top of my intelligence, I'd consider it a life well spent.
Somebody please read the notes at the funeral.
Did you ever have 'die happy' moments? Moments that you realized, if I died now, got hit by lightening, whatever, I would be content and complete just because of where I am, what I'm doing, who I'm with, or some combination thereof?
I had one with my husband once, listening to a chamber music concert at Temple Emanu-El a few years ago. The music, the setting, the feeling of warmth and happiness, perhaps the notion of being in a spiritual (Reform, sure, but whatever) place made me think that particular thought.
I've had a few more since then; I don't care to share them all.
But I equate being supremely happy with being ready to die. What's wrong with me?
My doctor had me call him today for test results. He hasn't called me back. Fucking compliance.
I am scared to inform my temp agency that working in Newark would be a physical hardship right now. Because, quite frankly, it would be. Usually, I'd play through. I play through pain.
Am I taking care of myself? Or am I just an incredible pussy?
More than anything else, I want to lift weights. I want power.
Apologies once again for you three people who read this thing. It was not a plea for sympathy. Maybe just a little understanding. I don't know. My family doesn't really get it; I don't know what friends to tell. Do you call everyone, say hey I'm not quite dead yet? Email? Is there a card for this? Still haven't figured this out.
Certain People are on my case for not being quick enough to acknowledge sympathy; for crying; for expressing fear; for venting anger. I don't know what to do with them. A fair amount of them are related to me.
But honestly, I don't think anyone can understand, aside from a couple of people who I am eternally grateful for.
I will not cry in public, I am going to drink my coffee and use all the expensive Internet access I just got.
In conclusion, Starbucks can blow me.