A Rough Draft: On Sickness and Guilt
I’ve been in bed for well over 24 hours. I’ve missed an audition and I’ve been unable to focus on even the simplest of tasks. This one itself is already becoming a drudge. My brows furrow over my eyes at the light from the computer. My mind aches with every vibration of the brain pan. There’s this disgusting film all over my mouth and no matter how many times I brush I only need to wait a few minutes and I’ll be waking up again from another fevered nap with a sticky tongue.
I have no idea how I’ll make a video tonight.
I guess I should be grateful this happened on a weekend.
I don’t even remember what I was going to talk about in this post. I just realized that if I didn’t write something soon, before I knew it, I’d be waking up in my bed on a Sunday morning. Cursing myself for not fulfilling my New Years resolution. And it’s only February!
The problem with being sick is that I have a history of being told I was always over doing it. In fact more often than not I was accused of faking it. I remember on time in high school before I had a car I ended up spending the entire day in the nurses office trying to rest on one the so-called mattresses they had in the back. It was all against her own wishes. Throughout the entire day she attempted to send me back to class, to get me out of that bed. In a way I couldn’t blame her because I did spend an unhealthy amount of time going to the nurses office to avoid social interaction. But I also found it depressing she didn’t understand that this time was different. I was sick.
I laid there, head aching, stomach churning, the nurse feeding my orange juice but unable to vomit, till 5:30pm. That was real twisted part about it. The nurse had been calling my mom to pick me up: but she wouldn’t. She didn’t care. She normally ignored the phone. It got to the point where I had to take the last late bus or risk being locked in the school overnight (I mean, not that they’d do that — but the point was that if I was getting home it wouldn’t be from my mom).
That bus ride was always depressing. All of them were. Regular bus, short bus, late bus. Something about riding with a bunch of people you share no comfort or personal connection with feels worse than alienating.
When I finally arrived home, my mom was the only one in the house. I only needed to walk through the door when I felt it. That stinging pain in your stomach that reaches upward an around your throat letting you know you’ve got limited options.
I made my way to my room. If I could just get to my bed.
I felt my bones go weak as my body started sending all of it’s energy and heat into my digestive system. I could hear my mom mom talking on the phone in here room.
“mom…” I mumbled as I fell to my knees in front of the Penguin Wastebasket in my room I still to this day don’t recall having past fifth grade.
“Maaoomll”are my words as the vomit fills my throat and comes pouring out in a pathetic drip in to the trashcan.
She’s still on the phone.
I yell between breaths for her to come. My body convulsing over the cheap trashcan I will never see again after this day — who knows what happened to it, my long hair getting in the way of my mouth as I feebly try to control it while holding on to the basket.
She never makes it. I get through the whole thing without her assistance. She’s still on the phone. For all my yelling and begging you think she was across two acres in east wing of the house. But she was just in her room which sat right next to mine, and which she would later expand by knocking out my wall and leaving me to live the study.