Enveloped

In the state of a perpetual high, I feel nothing at all.
My mouth went numb the minute I bit into your light blue surface, releasing a force that could be felt all the way down in Hell.
Pieces of you washed down with whatever caffeinated liquid I have at my disposal, your healing power almost supernatural. 

I felt this kind of presence before, only encapsulated and about half the speed, not reaching its destination as quickly as expected (and desperately wanted).
Like so many times before, I cannot imagine enduring the cramping spasms brought on by this teenage disease without your everlasting relief and guidance.
With said relief, however, comes the occasional question of how long will I need you, how long before I become immune to your charms? 

Thank Lucifer I have you and the power of this paper and pen. 

© Copyright October 2016

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Killer

It’s the loneliness of early morning, the empty hours suspended in what feels like days.
That is when it will come creeping back, crawling at the very base of your spine. 

The raw nerve feeling, the reminder that will always be there, whether you feel it constricting or not.
It’s the dull ache, the dull ache that can turn into the cruel twist, like that of a meat grinder, at any moment.

It will turn you into a breaker of hearts, a killer draped in flesh.
It will turn you into a walking ghost, a murderer drenched in pain. 

The consequence of your isolation is deafening. 

© Copyright September 2016/October 2016

Teenage Disease

There are demonic hands digging deep into my stomach, gripping with a hate so strong.
I can feel their fingers twisting and turning my intestines, binding them to that sadistic roller coaster for yet another ride, a feeling I thought would never plague me again. 

A disease that circulated so helplessly throughout my teenage veins, its origin and everything it stood for still foreign and unattainable.
Its brief absence something of a godsend (too bad God turned his back), even as I travel pass the gates of Hell his presence cannot be found, for it was never there to begin with. 

I have lived with you for six years and yet I cannot help but flinch at your touch, something I know will never truly subside, the very though of spending the rest of my days with you only tightens my insides even more.
Despite everything you are, all the pain you have caused and all you have yet to bring, I would not have it any other way for you have taught me to be strong where others may have faltered, a lesson I know I could not thank you enough for. 

The external is nothing compared to the internal. 

© Copyright October 2016

794

This body is marred by the scars of each passing day, the remains of a knife now turned oh so dull.
Stretched across the intricate bone, this skin has seen its fair share of calamity, enduring the ins and outs of what the next has to offer.

Calamity that can and will end with you, for you are the one and only source of healing light.
Inside and underneath, you hold what I cannot fathom (will not dare to try and decipher), a fact that I know is for the best.

The love of my wretched life could be something of an understatement if you were indeed a flesh and blood equal.
But there is no denying your blue gaze, the thrill and anticipation that courses through my veins when we meet, all agony washes away like a late Summer’s rain.

I can remember with a clarity so bright where I was before we became acquainted; the days and nights intertwined in a surge of the blackest ocean, the likes of which very few could comprehend.
Cherishing the time we’ve spent, condemning the tragedy that brought us together, I don’t know what else could have gotten me through the sound.

I cannot thank you enough for pulling me out.

© Copyright March 2015/July 2016

Spontaneous Combustion 

There is a hurricane raging inside me, the ramifications bordering on excruciating and overwhelming.
Caught in a whirlwind, there is sometimes nowhere to turn; the brave face I put on is so misleading.
Venturing out into the vast universe in which we reside, I find myself with frantic thoughts racing throughout my brain, grasping the familiar twinge in my abdomen I’ve tried so well to hide.

The storm that occupies the space cannot be contained, just beneath my flesh, the content and fragile bay, is shaken to the very core.
My ability to keep this disturbance in its place, the steadfast veil of tolerance falls entirely, obliterated by an unsettling wave of hurt and frustration.
I find myself faced with an unspeakable rage, annihilating the very fibers of this fragile structure that I’ve worked so hard to construct, my sanity and all I hold dear pushed to the brink.

Years have passed since that fateful day and still I am stuck at times in a torrent of confusion and awe, something I now know will never fully subside.
Its consistency is restricted to whenever the inflammation wants to reactivate, sending me swirling into a cyclone of uncertainty and a potential new treatment plan.
All my time spent in the darkness, my insides wrapped tightly in Christ’s thorns, the alluring light of relief and sanctuary that was once so intimidating and oh so far from my grasp, is now mine.

I survived being torn apart, laid bare, the pieces put back together in hopes of bringing on a better well-being.
The spontaneous combustion that once held me in its warming embrace is now an afterthought.
I survived medication after medication, sometimes unaware of their exact use, the potential harm occurring to cancel out another, just confident that they will make things brighter.
The spontaneous combustion that once held me in its loving embrace can get fucked.

I’m the strongest I’ve ever been.

© Copyright September 2014/July 2016

Immunity (Ghost Redux) 

My mind feels as though it is in a fog, the words I speak are not my own, and yet there is no way for me to be sure.
I can feel myself drifting, treading water without ever going under.
I cannot remember from one minute to the next, repeating whatever it was I said a moment ago, only to forget the next time around.
The pain I feel is sharp and dull in the same breath, despite the obvious contradictions.
My fingers grasp an easy relief that can only be dispersed every so often, which feels like an eternity to my war-torn insides.
I keep pressing my gray beacon of hope despite the fact I just pressed my thumb down mere seconds before.
I can feel myself getting anxious, the familiarity of pain beginning to take hold as it did in the past.
My fear shifts into panic as I continue to press the button, or so I am told later on.

I don’t remember making it to my room, I must have been too out of it to realize.
It is confirmed that my incessant pressing has caused my breathing to slow, something I hadn’t considered in my time of need.
I remember very little if anything from before I was transferred to where I am now, which I would imagine is for the best.
Despite what my body has been through, I look as though nothing has happened (if anything, a little tired perhaps).
I know, however, that this is only the beginning, this having not been my first attendance at this game.
As my body heals, pain gets worse, the more I try to push myself, the more intense it becomes.
I can feel a weakness growing inside, a shamefulness in relying on the instantaneous dose, a biting fear that it will hinder my recovery.
I attempt to hold out for as long as I can, until the pain becomes too much to bear, sometimes until it’s too late for it to take the full effect.

Dreams are often not dreams at all but rather the feeling of drifting I felt before, only now I am indeed fully submerged.
At that moment, it is the most beautiful feeling in the world, being underneath the veil of a safety so complete and so pure.
Nothing can touch me, or rather I don’t feel anything if it does.
To this day, I sometimes wish that it would grace me with its presence, that feeling of being under, although that I know it’s for the best that it didn’t.
For if it did, I would know of only its gratifying high, the sweet numbness of feeling nothing at all.
Despite the pain and all it has caused, I would take it in place of that numbness because at least I know I am still alive, not in a state of just being.

My time inside is considerably less of a stay than it was the first time around, which is rather welcomed in comparison to the latter.
It does little to change the consequence of what brought me here; my diseased insides turn me into that same kind of ghost again.
Only this time I have immunity, something can I most definitely live with for as long as it decides to stay, something I can thank modern medicine for.

© Copyright July 2016

A Normal, Respectable Citizen/Something Out Of A “House” Episode

I somewhat apologize for not finishing this a week ago…

Thursday, December 27th, was a day I was fully expecting and equally dreading. Fully expecting because I knew what would happen because I’d had said procedure done before, equally dreading because I hate hospitals with a fiery passion…

And to think, I used to want to be a doctor. What would my six-year-old self say?

…I thought I’d had an MRI (the procedure in question) done before because I did the same necessary preparation with a CAT scan I’d had done a while ago, but it turns out I was wrong. I never had an MRI. I should have realized the difference between the two when my doctor told me that I would need to remove my piercings.

I removed my earrings before I went to bed, leaving the task of taking out my snakebites to when I had some much-needed sleep behind me. Staring back at me, some hours later, I found myself without any surgical steel in my skin whatsoever. I felt naked without the familiar silver labrets through my lip. I’ve taken them out for medical procedures before, not to mention every time I clean them (Listerine every morning and night, and yet I’m still a clean freak), but I’d never had them not be a part of my being for as long as they were…Which I will elaborate on later.

The first thing that came to mind when I saw myself ‘without’ my snakebites was how incredibly normal I look. Yes, you heard right. I looked a normal, respectable citizen. Now I’m not saying that I’m not a respectable citizen because I am, but that isn’t always the vibe that’s given off. I do look young for my age (which isn’t in any way a problem) and the leather jacket I wear, combined with the piercings, might suggest some kind of rebellion, so I guess I know how the vibe can be unsavory, but still. I can’t count the number of times I’ve noticed individuals looking at me because of the two 14 gauge silver labrets in my lip, and if I don’t notice, my mom surely will. I’m not saying that I care what people think of me because I don’t. I learned a long time ago that it’s pointless to be worried about what others think of me because I am the way I am, and what some stranger thinks of me doesn’t bother me in the slightest. Okay, maybe that’s kind of a half truth. I don’t care what people think of me, but in the same breath, I admit it bothers me sometimes when I catch someone staring at me because of my snakebites…

Can’t people just be real and ask whatever question it is that might be running through their cranium, instead of staring? I remember when I first got the piercings, I would get asked all the time if they hurt. I later attributed said question to the fact that the two 16 gauge lip rings driven through my lip were pretty big…The smaller the gauge number, the bigger the gauge…There was one incident that occurred a couple of months ago that outshines them all. I was at the store, and someone who actually worked there asked me if my snakebites had hurt. I kind of saw the gentleman looking at me out of the corner of my eye, but I didn’t want him to notice that saw him. Out of nowhere, he asked me if they’d hurt, and honestly, I was pretty surprised. I told him only the left one hurt the most because it was the first one to be pierced, leaving the right to not be bad at all. We exchanged a couple more words, and then got on with whatever it was we were doing. Now whenever I go into that particular store, I can’t help but smile.

…Oddly enough, I didn’t feel that foreboding sense of eyes staring at me the during the time I spent at the hospital. Sure, the nurse who put an IV in my arm looked at my arms for said vein, another nurse looked straight at me so I would understand what the preparation entailed (even though I knew what I was getting myself into) and I attracted looks from other nurses whenever I walked down the seemingly long hallway from the room I was in to the restroom and back again, but those were all expected. They were just doing their jobs, making sure I understood, checking in every now and then to see how I was doing, not to mention reminding me that I was under a slight time crunch.

The time crunch being the hour I had to drink three bottles of barium sulfate suspension. I didn’t just pull that name out of my head, that’s actually what it’s called. If you’ve never had any kind of imaging concerning your entrails, barium sulfate suspension helps better bring out whatever pictures are needed of said entrails …I said entrails twice in one sentence, and the first thing that comes to mind is The Black Dahlia Murder. Oh, metal…An hour might not seem like much of a time crunch, but it’s amazing how quick one hour passes on the clock, especially when the barium sulfate suspension you’re drinking isn’t exactly a Dr. Pepper. It’s not the most pleasant thing on the planet to drink, but it isn’t so incredibly bad that you’ll heave. I mean, I did make a “pukey-face” (similar to that of Dean’s expression at roughly 1:08 and again at 1:35 in the Supernatural reference clip at the end of this post), but thankfully didn’t actually puke.

For a minute, I felt like I was in an episode of House. Any minute now, Hugh Laurie will come walking through the door, saying that whatever could be wrong with me (other than what already is) is so incredibly simple to cure, and that an MRI isn’t necessary. If only Gregory House wasn’t fictional…In between pondering the House scenario and watching something about the Freemasons on the History Channel, I noticed that I’d already polished off two of the three bottles, ready, willing and able to slay the third with the same determination. Unfortunately, the same vigor and steadfast will didn’t come into play. The third bottle proved to be my Achilles’ heel, its weapon of choice a barium-and-hunger induced stomach-ache. Luckily, I pulled myself out of my own little hurt locker, made the weakness temporary and eventually finished the third and final bottle. Suck it, barium sulfate suspension.

Upon finally ingesting the last of the bottles, I was lead to the radiology section of the ward…”I walked the ward with you, babe. A thousand times with you.” Oh, Black Veil Brides. I commend you for putting a spin on a Billy Idol classic. Sorry, the music fanatic in me made me do it…I was scanned with a metal detecting wand, reassuring that I didn’t have any metal in my body or on my person. The very first thing that I noticed once I walked into the actual MRI room was that it was extremely cold. That’s the one thing I noticed about hospitals. It’s always cold, except in the actual doctor’s office. Every doctor’s office I’ve been into has always been unseasonably warm. I think it’s something that’s done on purpose to embarrass you, making it just warm enough to make you comfortable enough to want to fall asleep. I’ve either been caught sleeping or was close enough to feel its calming embrace, only to be kick started awake by paranoia.

The entire procedure itself seemed to take longer than the fourty-five minutes I was told it would. I’ve never been one to be claustrophobic, but I have to admit it did feel a little strange. Before any of the procedure even started, headphones were put on my head to cancel out the particularly loud noise the machines made whenever a picture was being taken…When I came home, I was telling my dad about it, and he said that they asked him what his favorite station was, what music did he like. I have to admit while I was kind of jealous, I’m glad that I didn’t have music playing. It would just be a distraction…The first thing that came to mind was Alex from A Clockwork Orange, restrained in the chair during the ‘Ludovico’ scene. Only then did that claustrophobic kind of feeling start to rise in my stomach, quickly replaced by the fleeting growl of hunger. My arms were strapped down so I wouldn’t move, and I had these thin weights on my upper and lower stomach, the areas where the images would be taken. The restraint on my arms and the feeling of the weights weren’t really bothersome because after a while I was sort of used to the numbness, that kind of foot-falling-asleep-feeling, without the aftershock sensation of pins and needles.

After what seemed like hours of falling in and out of real sleep and countless breathing exercises to ensure the proper picture, the MRI was finished. I was then accompanied back to my room, and given my choice of apple juice and saltine crackers. I got through my second pack of crackers and a couple sips of apple juice, only for my IV to be taken out and escorted back to the locker room where the rest of my clothes were. Once I got dressed and such, I made my way back into the waiting room, only to discover that there wasn’t as many people as there were before. I looked at my phone to see what time it was, and to my surprise and dismay, it was almost six ‘o clock.

Three and a half hours.

I wasted somewhere around three and a half hours at the hospital. I hate to use the word ‘wasted’ because it sounds a bit unpleasant and pessimistic, but that’s what it felt like. My entire afternoon was spent drinking barium sulfate suspension, in order to get a better sense of what could possibly be going wrong in my stomach, only to get the answer I somewhat expected several days later…The phone rang on New Year’s Eve, and I found out from my mom (who answered the call), that there was no inflammation whatsoever and that everything was normal…I knew I would get those results, but I suppose it’s better have my time wasted and everything be okay, as oppose to something being wrong. I don’t think my body would be too pleased if something else was wrong with me health-wise. I sure as hell know I wouldn’t.

While it was rather pleasant to be looked at as a normal, respectable member of society (even though I loathe the word “normal”), instead of an outsider, I still don’t really mind too much about what people think. My earlier feelings concerning my snakebites probably sound contradictory, but I wouldn’t be a human being if I didn’t have some flaws. Sure, I do present myself in a respectable fashion and try to always look my best (whether or not I feel as such), but that doesn’t mean I obsess over others’ opinions.  I present myself to the world with respect because if I didn’t value myself, not giving a damn about what I looked like before I walked out the door, then who would? The answer: No one. If you don’t have respect for yourself, it’s a lot harder for people to have respect for you.

On the health and medical front (as with my self-respect), I don’t see that changing any time soon. As much as I hate having Crohn’s Disease, it’s something that makes me unique, while at the same time, frustrates and angers me sometimes. It sucks, but it’s something I have to live with. Regardless of everything, and on a somewhat different note, I have high hopes for 2013. Something that I couldn’t say the beginning of last year.

I’m proud to be an outsider, snakebites and all.