everyone has a hardluck story, but this isn’t mine

i have to write about this somewhere.

3 am saturday night & i’m in the emergency room, needles in my arm and an IV in my hand, liquid drip drip dripping from the bags hanging next to the bed. the tv is on, but the volume is low, and all i can really hear are the noises from the nurses’ station, the other rooms.

every organ aches.

this wasn’t supposed to happen.

so i have to explain that i don’t want to die, have to tell this story over and over because that’s how hospitals are. at 5 am, a woman from administration comes in. she’s recording this incident. this was a mistake, right? yeah, i say. half smile. sad eyes. yeah. she looks at me carefully before her pen moves again. i have a daughter a year younger than you, she tells me. you know. you’re a beautiful girl. it doesn’t have to be like this. you really are a beautiful girl.

i’ll be alright, i say. it sounds like a promise. the words taste artificial and hot against the insides of my cheeks, rubbing up against my tongue and lips. when she’s gone, my head sinks back down into that sweatshirt- the one i kept, the one i kept secret, the one that means comfort more than i could explain. i try to sleep.

the truth is, fuck, i don’t know what happened. i never do. one second, i know myself, and then i’m gone. i lose myself somewhere. i don’t know what i’m doing, why i’m doing it. the world happens; i have no control. and then i wake up. i could stay up all night shaking and crying, hearing voices. that was in a tucson hotel room in summer of 2001. i could shred the skin on my legs with a razor. that was last april. or i could take about 6,000 milligrams of ibuprofen. that’s 30 pills. that was saturday night.

and the thing is, this wasn’t supposed to happen. 

because i don’t want to die.

they let me go home in the morning, medicated and quarts of fluid running through my veins, washing out my kidneys and my liver. last year, my doctor told me it was a miracle they’re still working, after the history i have. i am in no place to fuck with a miracle. is anyone? papers signed, agreements made. one last time. no i’m not consciously suicidal. yes i want to live.

yes, i want to live.

i fall asleep on the living room floor with both of them watching me. i feel cared about. that wasn’t what this was about, i know that much. later in the afternoon, i joke about the medicine they gave me- “i peed so much. it was like god creating the rivers and oceans.” aaron smiles, and i’m not sure if he’s humoring me, but it really doesn’t matter. i don’t want this to be something we can’t talk about. i don’t want him to close up, like i’m suddenly something dangerous.

even if i am?

sometimes living this life is a mystery. i don’t mean living in general, i mean me, this body. i don’t know why i have these episodes. i mean, i know the triggers, but why. i want to be normal and drink too much every night, smoke pot when i’d rather be crying, numb insomnia with nicotine or valium. or maybe not. my organs still ache. the doctors said they would, for a few days. i have a prescription for the pain, but haven’t gotten it filled.

maybe i’m not sure i deserve to be spared this reminder. maybe i don’t want to be spared. maybe i want to understand, and maybe this will help.

standing outside, waiting for aaron to come home and drive me to the hospital (knowing he’s running red lights, hating how this is hurting him), he stands with me to make sure i don’t fall down or pass out. i give him a hug. i say, there’ve been worse nights, and i’m still here. don’t worry. i’ll be okay. this isn’t a guarantee i can make, because already i want to double over from the pain, but i make it anyway. and i see headlights around the corner, and then we’re sailing through the night and all i can think is.

fuck. this wasn’t supposed to happen.

and.

i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry.