I'm going to squeeze you a little harder than feels good.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT.

A ride in an ambulance, trip to the ER, nausea meds, shot in the ass, X-ray, and IV-drip later, and I'm back on my back. Things got really complicated when I fell prey to some horrific stomach virus. A stomach virus when you're virtually immobile is pretty much a nightmare, logistically and otherwise. Think about it. Or don't--I'm trying to forget.

I'm home now, feeling a mix of gratitude and frustration, and a lot of confusion.

Various people, all well-meaning, each a love in my life, have told me that I need to "stress less." And to "take it easy." And that "these things [I'm] worrying about are all temporary and easily fixed." To "remember the big picture." To "be grateful for the good things."

It's the worst kind of advice, the kind that asks you to tinker with your machinery, to be ______. If it was "drink less coffee" or "try not to stay up so late," I would have a better chance of following it. Not that I would follow it, but I could. I could physically not put cups of coffee in my mouth and I could physically climb into bed a few hours earlier.

But how to change the intangibles? I can't help that mountains of boxes make me feel physically weak and emotionally overwhelmed. I can't help that it takes me three hours to make a decision about which drawer is best suited for the "big utensils." I can't help that I regret nearly every action I complete, re-do the action, and then realize that it was better the first way. What I'm thinking is, I'm pretty much okay in my labyrinth of obsessions, undoings, misdoings, unyieldings, and wrongs. It's when that labyrinth gets audited by the map of others, that it seems to go cruel, vengeful. See how normal people do it? What you are doing is not normal. And then my loved ones feel sort of bad for me, and also sort of horrified by me.

I'm the worst kind of patient, an abuser. I hate needing help. "Help" means that you are obliged to accept it as it is, openly, gratefully. "Help" means "someone else's way." And I prefer, too much, my way. Even as a beggar. Even when I feel like I actually may be dying. A light bulb was supposed to come on, that didn't.

*

I wrote this last night. Today I'm walking around, cronish. Please and thank you.

4:02 PM

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About Me

Name: Kristen Iskandrian
Location: United States

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online work: a petite sampling

  • HTML Giant
  • Everyday Genius
  • Hobart
  • Fifty-Two Stories
  • Mississippi Review
  • Memorious

      Previous Posts

      • Report from the floor, day 2.
      • Report from the floor.
      • We're packing up to move to a different house, the...
      • THIS STRANGE CHANGE IN ATMOSPHERE
      • Dear this Past Week, I'm going to let Mrs. White &...
      • Test of the Emergency Broadcast System
      • 1st & 2nd sections
      • what if nothing works out what if nothing works wh...
      • Whitman's Sampler
      • In the house that is the mother's house

      archives

      • November 2007
      • December 2007
      • January 2008
      • February 2008
      • March 2009
      • April 2009
      • October 2009
      • November 2009
      • December 2009
      • January 2010
      • February 2010
      • March 2010
      • April 2010
      • May 2010
      • June 2010
      • July 2010
      • August 2010
      • September 2010
      • October 2010
      • November 2010
      • December 2010
      • January 2011
      • February 2011
      • March 2011
      • May 2011
      • June 2011
      • August 2011