I’m the happiest I’ve been in a long time. It’s a shame my body doesn’t know it.
There is stress, good stress, excitement, gets my adrenaline pumping. I feel challenged, stimulated.
Again, it’s a shame my body doesn’t understand.
I look down the toilet bowl the water has turned bright red.
I wipe myself, stand up. I did wipe myself but it’s no use. Blood drips on the toilet seat, looks darker. All down my legs. It’s everywhere.
And I’m still happy. It’s a shame my body just doesn’t know it. Doesn’t get it.
And how much is my body a part of me anyway?
If I lost my legs, how much of me would I lose? Or my arms? Or my eyes?
I imagine there are lots of little garden gnomes inside me. Tiny ones. Wielding pick-axes. Or are they dwarves? Anyway, irrelevant. Pickaxes, knives, those threatening looking ones with ornate shapes carved out. And they hack away.
But they are my friends. There is a reason for everything. There is a reason they make me bleed. My body is trying to defend itself. It’s a shame my body just doesn’t know it. My dual-personalitied tissue, that’s grown like a germ, from nothingness, to form a part of me. A part of me that I wish I could hate, but I don’t. An old friend. An old friend I have taken care of, and don’t want to lose. An old friend who has been through so much with me. An old friend that I would mourn for and miss on a daily basis, should we ever be parted.
And nobody wants to have to switch off the life-support machine.
When we take a tooth out, some people want to keep it. Some don’t. I would keep it, I mean, I grew those teeth. I don’t keep fingernails or hair, there is a line.
I would want to keep my colon though, pickled in a jar. Like a grave-stone, that I could visit.
Even though I bleed daily, there is something different about cutting stomach flesh open, pulling your colon out like a fat worm. Or pulling it out the other end. It’s disgusting. And worse than that, is being unconscious, no control, no knowledge, no input, no sensation. No nothing. Passed out on a slab. Hoping that you wake up. Hoping that when you wake up, you’re in one piece.
I used to think I was worried about waking up mid-surgery, but I’m not sure.
I’m happy. Tired and happy. Exhausted and happy.
Must end post due to extreme sleeppppppppppy.
So, what was I saying.
John, I hope that you are ok, wherever you are. And would like to not make friends with anonymous people on the internet, who I become so close to, and fond of, and then actually… don’t know who you are, where you live, how to contact you, or even if you are still alive. There is anonymity. And then there is just stupidity, on my part really. I hope you’re on holiday, or taking a break, rather than unconscious, dead, in a mental institute, or prison…. Where are you…
Do come back.