[twentyone]:an exposition on pain and injury

I woke up this morning with the intention of making the day a productive one. The doxylamine succinate kept me momentarily motionless in bed, but I forced myself to make breakfast.

Oatmeal and egg whites. The oatmeal reached the boiling point faster than I expected, and it began seeping out from underneath the lid and onto the oven surface. My oven is an electric one, so it didn’t take long for the milk to burn itself.

Half an hour later, I finished eating my first meal of the day. I got ready, and left the house while pumped up on caffeine.

It was cloudy outside. A minefield of water drops were collected on the roof and hood of my car. Did it rain?

It was cold inside the car. My iPod was playing jazz through the radio. I changed the song to something more modern—something that would course adrenaline through my body.

Destination reached.

First objective completed.

Subsequent objectives also completed.

I had one more to finish before I could go home, but something was amiss. I strained more than I should have. In an instant, a troubleshooting checklist ran through my mind.

I felt weak. Perhaps I should have rested a few more days, maybe even a week.

But at that moment, my ears started ringing. My head felt light. Certainly, something shifted.

I was afraid. I stood up and started walking, but I couldn’t even do that correctly. The amount of pain was unlike anything I felt before. I wanted to go home immediately and lie down.

Something.

Anything.

I needed whatever it would take.

The drive home could be described as incredible discomfort. It was as if I couldn’t even breathe correctly. Every shift in motion, every bump in the road, resulted in yelling to take my mind off on how sharply it hurt.

Even now, I’m not quite sure what the pain is. I can’t even sit, I can’t even get up without wanting to fall to my knees. Gravity is certainly taking its toll on me.

I was afraid, and that feeling still lingers. However, I am also thoroughly disappointed in myself. How could I be so careless? It definitely is my fault, because I stubbornly dredged on.

I don’t even want to admit verbally on what’s wrong, and I haven’t been able to. But a visit to the hospital is inevitable. I just kind of wish I could sleep for three weeks and continue with my life.

There’s an uncertainty that’s killing me. Whatever progress I’ve made in the past year and half—will it all have been for naught?

I want to sleep for three weeks and not think about that anymore.