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cuts&bits&ouches: Blood Moons

5/16/2015

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I haven’t spoken to Oliver since the morning I left. All it took was a quick glance in the mirror and I was gone; I’m not even sure I remembered to lock the door behind me. The night before had been a bit off-kilter—belly cramps and slight dizziness—but I just attributed it to our leftover-Chinese dinner and my occasional bouts of low blood pressure. I fell asleep easily in our eggshell-walled bedroom, Advil PM dissolving in my gut, right leg slung over Oli’s left ankle. 

I’ve heard of people not noticing the effects of lactose-intolerance, depression, allergies, even schizophrenia until later in life, but I was sure that by twenty-four, I had escaped any late-onsetting of anything. I was prepared to move into my Saturn Return, sloughing off cigarettes and late-night red wine, all the while gaining deep deep perspective. As if the gauntlet of 20-something isn’t dreadful enough, suddenly there are whiskers in the mix. 


I spend so much time shaving these days, that there’s no room for any of that self-reflection mumbo-jumbo that I was (secretly) looking forward to. It’s hard enough to wash my face and brush my teeth, remember to floss, and re-apply lipstick after eating, but now I have to run this stupid razor up and down and up and down my cheeks before I can even think about going outside. Last year, I was loose-lipped and whisker-free, all I really worried about was the occasional pimple, pepper-tooth, muffin top, drunk text—amateur stuff, really—but in the blink of an eye, everything’s changed. Not only did I morph into this unholy, hairy, blood-sick creature—something that fits in better on Game of Thrones than in Northern California—but I also had to move back in with my parents. The room I grew up in is now a reptile room; I sleep in the basement. 

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cuts&bits&ouches:                              Deforestation and Other Side Effects, pt. 2

12/9/2014

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       I stick flowers in my milk-jug-sized pill bottles; Martha Stewart told me that flowers have the ability to brighten up any space. I like roses the best, even though they wither the quickest without any water. Now all of my pills have petal pieces stuck to their casings. The magnitude of dead foliage inside my guts is astounding. I hope the grown-outside petals can mix with the grown-inside petals and create a funky hybrid rose. If only I had enough hydration to sustain a new anything.
       The pills are sapping me completely. I feel like California: stunted, infertile, dry as a bone. I used to be dense with photosynthesis; it was hella sexy. Now I’m all thin and papery, ripe kindling for a forest fire. Mood stabilizers are well-know for their cornucopia of side effects. My cells are degenerating at the speed of light, my hair falls out by the handful, and my eyes are so sensitive that I have to wear those ugly, blind guy, black-plastic sunnies inside. I’m like the poster child for what-not-to-ingest-if-you-ever-hope-to-get-a-date-again.
       From kitchen to bedroom to couch and back: I make haphazard crazy eight patterns with my slippered feet. I chill easily these days, and must keep a blanket pinned around my neck like a cape. I have a small gold couch that I salvaged from the dumpster. The upholstery is flaking off in chunks the size of fingernails. My fingernails are flaking off and mixing with the chunks. I think about sweeping a few times a day, but am easily distracted by the sounds of dying inside. I chug water with abandon. I wonder when my post-hospital-assigned-psychologist will call?

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cuts&bits&ouches:                         Deforestation and Other Side Effects

12/3/2014

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       I’ve been out of the bin for a few weeks now. The Powers-That-Be (thankfully) approved my discharge plans and sent me packing. Now all I’m supposed to do is this:
       1. Take my medicine
       2. Take my medicine
       3. Take my medicine
       4. Admit that my insides look like everyone else’s insides (A.K.A.: Deny the existence of a flora-and-fauna-filled wilderness in my guts.)
       Easier said than done done done, I say. You must suffer the darkness in order to see the stars, they say. Bullshit macaroni treetop cytoplasm, I say. I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet, they say.





**(I will be posting little experts from stories here and there and here. If there is a bit that really catches your eye, feel free to leave a comment, and I will probably post more of that story!)**

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