New Year, Same Me
January 2022
I am submerged in painkillers, but the pain is as clear as ever. I am a mouthful of open wounds; my speech is garbled, heavy with uncertainty. I swallow and inside I scream.
I rinse my mouth in the bathroom inside my hospital room and I bang my fists against the walls. I get back into bed and sleep for an hour; I wake and do it all over again.
I try to listen to my meditations but they do nothing to penetrate my reality. I watch Grey’s Anatomy and remain awake. I am administered another painkiller: I should be more careful but I am not; I should ease off the dose but I cannot live like this without aid.
I feel like I am drowning; breathing through my mouth is not an option, because the air stings and pinches my sores, but my nose is congested, so each breath I take is shallow. I use nasal spray, decongestants, more often than recommended. I need a minute of relief.
I read my books and websites and forget what’s been consumed a minute later. I rewind my shows and watch again. My attention is blurred. I do not drive on days like this. On this day—for this whole week, I do not even leave the room. I am on contact isolation and I will not be released until my Covid test is negative.
I blow off my friends; I don’t write back. When I’m well, I make plans and then become too sick to go. I apologize but it must get old, right? I am never there when I say I will be.
I need a break. I want a break.
This is my entire life, and I want more.