Transylvanian Hunger

This morning my grandparents and I went out for breakfast. I didn't really feel hungry at all, but I knew it was morning and that I needed to eat because about twelve hours had passed since I enjoyed a bagel and cream cheese for dinner last night. My stomach doesn't ever get that "hungry" feeling. I can count on one hand the times I've felt hunger pangs since the onset of all this back in June. You could give me complete and total control of every aspect of the menu for any given meal, and I still doubt that I'd feel hungry or really all that excited about eating in the first place.

I started thinking about the word hunger, and ways that it is used in simile and metaphor for other aspects of life. I spend most days resting (save for my super bitchin' active walks I've been all up on since Thursday's date with Dr. Destiny) because I don't physically feel well. I don't have the strength or the drive to do things that are overly active. I can't work. The one time I attempted to ride my bike since wrecking it as a result of dehydration was a horrible idea that I somehow walked away from unscathed. I more or less sit on the sidelines and try and fit myself into the busy lives of my friends who all have very important shit going on. It dawned on me today as I stared at a rather unappealing plate of eggs, italian sausage, hash browns, and toast, that not only do I never feel hunger in terms of food or nourishment, but I'm starting to lose the hunger accompanies living. Aside from picking up the pieces of my physical well being, once this issue gets resolved I am going to have to pick up the rest of my life. I tried to think about exactly what my life is going to look like on the other side of this awful mess, and well, nothing came to mind.

Now I am a firm believer in taking each day as it comes, and I have never been the world's strongest long term planner, but aside from not even being able to picture a healthy me living some sort of life beyond being chained to the commode, I am lacking the motivation to even pursue what that life is going to be. I see moving out of this state of waiting and testing and feeling 4 to 6 out of 10 on my best day as undoubtedly the most daunting trial life has placed in front of me yet. Five months of having your hopes dashed by non-event diagnostic test after non-event diagnostic test has drained me of having positivity as my number-one, go-to frame of mind.

Short of this blog, a memoir that's turning into less of a memoir and more of stories of my poor decision making strewn about my mindless babbling on all sorts of topics relating to making poor decisions, and taking Hipstamatic pics for my tumblr, there isn't any sort of tangible life I'm longing for upon getting healthy. There are people who I love that I want to hang out with and spend time with, but I am less than thrilled about the best possible scenario for a life in Oakland at full health (and the worst case scenarios are fucking unbearable to even imagine), and there aren't really any other cities or situations that come to mind as progressive and proper plans for continuing my life post recovery.

Not trying to be dramatic, and believe me, after last week's near 5150, this isn't a cry for help that hasn't already been heard and worked on, but I'm somewhat worried as to where to go from here. I do enjoy putting my bullshit into print, and apparently its not a complete waste of time to read according to some of my friends (and please, if you're saying that just to be nice, stop or ladies, if you're saying that because you want a piece, I'm way easier than that), so maybe if I keep hammering these keys I can write my way into something that pays using my brain versus punishing my already shredded body for an hourly wage again.

I am feeling my depression change as each week goes by. Last weekend was undoubtedly an aggressive outburst and how I managed to keep sharp objects entirely out of my hands may be proof that there is some sort of supernatural, omniscient being hard at work throughout these coptic times, but as the week has gone by and while I don't necessarily feel any better about anything at all, the emotional suffering has evolved. Depression throbs through my body like a dull, deep ache. Today as I walked through the Costco in San Leandro, I felt the ebb and flow of depression carry me down each aisle like currents in the Mississippi River. I wonder if I look as bad as I feel, because if my current relentless battle to stay composed is more exhausting than soccer, and there are times when I feel like I'm losing both the battle and the war.

"Burning inside (I cross myself, it doesn't help) Because I'm not smart enough (I'm digging into hot white) Learning not to lie."

First Failure

Today someone I really love and respect slighted me. Slighted me so much without even bothering to really understand the situation that I was slighted over. It fucked me up. Fucked me up bad. Ruined my day and my night. Turned me into a fucking shitty mope and made me feel like never leaving the house again.

I dwelled on it all night. No matter what I did, I couldn't shake it off. It made me a drag to be around, and made me second guess myself.

Well guess what, fuck you.

For your stupid, thoughtless lashing out, I am going to work that much harder at this. I am going to write that much better. I am going to crank out whatever fucking story for whoever wants to put my shitty dribble out there for the world to see. I'm doing it because I'm good at it and it makes me feel good. If you really are choosing to not participate in this part of my life, well then its your loss. It's something to be proud of. Something that gets me through the lowest times and I'm sure is only going to make the high times even better.

So I'm going to be awesome, just to spite you. I am going to be unfuckingavoidable by the time I'm done. You're going to wish you didn't have to see me, my name, and my words everywhere and they are going to haunt you just as long as today is going to haunt me.

You may have won the battle, but I'm winning the war.