I am spinning again. Circling the drain. None of this can be fixed by meds. Well I guess it would be a lot worse without meds. God, it’s a mess. Sitting here in hospital is giving me way too much thinking time. I’d love some wine right now. Please, please God, deliver me some wine.
Roll back time to when I was ten. Give me another shot at life. I fucked up this one. Maybe further back to ensure I don’t get heart disease. Maybe back to conception. Maybe the moment before. Maybe sperm me could avoid egg me. That would be so much better. No more Ingrid. No more pain. No more bullshit. Gone. History erased. Freedom. To never have been.
Of course I love my kids. But if we rewound, there would be no me. No them. No taking them away, just existence reversed. I don’t wish that on them, but if I hadn’t existed then it wouldn’t matter, because there wouldn’t supposed to be a them.
And so I sit, stuck in hospital. Same old, same old. I do exist. My existence is pitiful. But it is an existence. I cannot rewind. I cannot not be. It’s forty years too late for that. Maybe if I’d died during one of my surgeries… No waking up. Just blinking out like a shitty old light bulb. No more. No más. Faith No More. Midlife Crisis. Lauren Hill. Forgive ME Father. Back stabbers do this. Can you stab yourself in the back?
Questions, questions, always more questions. Never any answers. God I’m so tired. So goddamn tired. Exhausted. Mentally spent. Let me get off the train. Ha ha. My train is a blue line train, stuck in a tunnel between stops. And I’m always on it. And I always need to pee when I’m there.
My brain is a storm. A severe thunderstorm. Tornado waiting. Always on the sidelines. The tornado never actually comes in to wipe me away. It’s always in the offing – ready to destroy me. Taunting me. Making me feel minuscule, petrified, broken. I am always running from the tornado that never comes. If it could just come and sweep me away, maybe my mind would finally be quiet.
It would decay what’s inside my skull. Turn my brain to mush, as a useless vessel should be. My heart would finally stop its constant pounding, worrying, angry, depressed beating. All would be calm. The blood would no longer course through my veins, chasing itself on a futile race to nowhere. Stop beautiful fluid! Show yourself to me one more time, running in gorgeous rivulets down my arms, branching and merging, faster and faster.
My lungs could stop, relax, take their last breath. No longer panicking with their shallow inhalations. Breathing, panting, gasping for air. Air that is too scant to make me truly alive. Air that is too plentiful to let me die. It is all gone and my lungs can set me free.
My bones, joints, and muscles would no longer cry in pain. They would weep with joy. A new found freedom. Weightless in death. A beautiful stillness they have not felt since I was born with broken wrists. No more yoga I can’t do, sitting on the floor that is impossible, back I’m unable to wash, blocks I’m unable to jog, stairs I can’t climb, hikes I can’t walk, strolls I can’t take. No more thoughts of an excruciating end to my life as my body betrays me and breaks down before its time. Freedom.
And the heart. That piece of shit broken machine. The core of the body, that pumps us full of life with each beat. Mine brittle and damaged beyond reason. Both emotionally and physically. It can finally cease. Be quiet. Be calm. Let the blood stop flowing. It’s job is done.
My nerves that feel so much pain. Whose electricity explodes, sometimes in pleasure, usually in pain. The circuit will finally be broken. The sparks stilled.
“No more“, my body whispers. “No more“, as it stops. As it lets go. Silently happy for the end. Darker and darker it becomes. It is swept over by a cool magnificent blanket. Soothing the soul. And if that soul does indeed exist, it is finally at rest. It is its turn to breathe, deeply. To beat, strongly. To feel no pain. To think freely. Marking the end of forty years of strife. “No more“. “No more“, I think.
And then I am awake. Screaming an agonizing wail. No peace for me. A dream. A wicked dream my damaged brain conjured up to make me feel at peace. Only to shock me into reality. No. No. NO. STOP. It’s not fair. “Life isn’t fair“, my brain scornfully laughs. The only cure I can manage is wine. Wine. Knife. Pills. Ideation. Beautiful, harmless (lies) suicidal ideation. Fuck it all!