Draft 1/2

Don't Worry About Me

I'm not sure I remember the first time I got sick. Actually, I don't remember ever not being sick. Some of my earliest memories come from doctor visits: the neurologist, the cardiologist, the gastroenterologist. At four years old, when my mother said those words, matter-of-factly, telling me I'd be missing school again that day for a doctor's appointment and testing, I remember being a little scared because they sounded big and scientific and important. The tests would never find anything, anyway. All these years later, I still don't know what's wrong.

One night, I ate dinner over Genny and Jerry's house, my grandma's neighbors who I'd often visit while staying at her home. I was playing with their kids, Vicky and Eric, then around 4 and 2 years old respectively, which means I was no more than 10. We had brussels sprouts, which I remember pretending to enjoy to be polite. At the dinner table I began to feel faint, so I went into the living room to lay on the couch.

Lights flashed, completely surrounding me, colors moved over everything as far as I could see. I'm all alone. Where am I? I try to yell, but my mouth won't move - do I have a mouth? Have I ever spoken? What are those sounds? Everything is slow and stretched apart, it sounds like a record being played at half speed, backwards. After what feels like hours, I start to hear what might be voices in the distance. As they get closer, the lights start to stretch apart, like a prism of melting plastic. Jen...Jen...Jen...

Five minutes later, I woke on the floor of Genny's living room. M mother was crouching over me, saying my name over and over again. Genny is standing over her, looking intense and worried. My grandmother...my nanny was there, standing further away or maybe getting water. I don't remember the rest of that day.

I've probably been to every specialist in the book. I know that the issue isn't psychosomatic. Who makes up an issue that feels like an acid trip gone horribly wrong? Nobody. That's horseshit. Probably ten neurologists have told me I'm not epileptic, as many cardiologists have told me my heart's in good shape. No matter what test they put me through, there are never any answers. Nothing is ever wrong. So everything's perfect. That's why I'm randomly unconscious. That makes sense.

Being sick has effected every major life decision I've ever made, and often many of the minor ones. I can't live alone for fear that I might fall on the floor and choke on my own vomit like a rock star, but without the booze. I can't go to college out of state, because then my family would be too far away. I can't do the drugs that I used to do because now the increase or decrease in my heart rate will set me off - something that wasn't always an issue. That's probably a good thing, but I assure you that the realization of this fact did not come to me easily.

Jazz and I snorted a couple of Oxys in the high school bathroom during study hall before heading over to smoke a blunt with Sue. It was just like every day that week, and probably like every day for the past who knows how many months, but who keeps track? So we get to Sue's and we're hanging out, listening to music and shooting the shit before her mom gets home. We spark the blunt and pass it around a few times. I take a hit and cough, and I keep coughing hard. I start to get really light-headed.

I'm surrounded by a pulse, an all-encompassing nothingness and darkness. I'm alone but it's only scary because I don't know who I am. I'm embarrassed, but I don't know why I'm embarrassed because I'm all alone and I don't remember having ever done anything. The heartbeat of space explodes in sunbursts surrounding each eyeball, tiny rays of light I'm emitting from my own suns in my personal darkness. I hear something in the background, but the noises are so muffled and slow, I feel I might be inside my own heart. Woosh...woosh...woosh...

I wake and see Jazz's face right in front of mine. So startled to return to life, I jump and smack her in the face with my own face. She laughs, rubbing her forehead, and strokes my hair. "Jenny," she says with concern, "are you okay sweetie?" I groan and ask for water. I don't remember how I got home.


It took years of these types of situations for me to realize that not only did I have a drug problem, but that the drug problem was only exacerbating my whatever-it-is. I guess I should explain that, the whatever. Ever since I was a kid, it's been pretty much the same. I get a stomach ache, for whatever reason, and the nausea overcomes me. I start to feel dizzy and weak. Every movement makes it worse, and I can tell when it's coming. The flashes start coming into my eyes, and I feel like I'm going to throw up. And then, it happens. But, what is it?

I remember when I finally realized what I was doing to myself. I mean, I knew for years that I had to watch my diet. I couldn't eat spicy food on an empty stomach, couldn't eat this or that because I know that getting a stomach ache can lead to bigger issues. For years, I'd drink to excess, eat pills to excess, do whatever I wanted to excess because why not? For a long time, I was fine. I'd deal with sporadic illness, but the increase wasn't marked enough for me to consider it anything other than the norm. I think that I was about 24 when it really started getting to me. I'd drink all night with friends, do whatever drugs where on the table, get fucked up 'til the sun came up. That's just how it was. But so many mornings, I started to have problems because of the hangovers. I'd have slept over a friend's house the night before and wake up in the morning only to pass out on their floor. They'd freak out and worry, and then I'd have to explain the whole thing, tell them not to worry, tell them not to call an ambulance and could they just drive me home? I'd be fine tomorrow.

Every part of my body feels like it's sleeping. That uncomfortable, "pins and needles" kind of feeling, especially in my hands, feet, and legs. I can open my eyes just a crack, but everything is so blurry and it's all spinning. "Ugh, it happened again," I think to myself, "and where the fuck am I, again?" I try to get comfortable, no matter how I turn I feel worse. It smells like stale beer, cigarettes, and dirt. My mouth tastes about the same. As I begin to be able to open my eyes a little more, the sun shining through the basement window feels like I'm being maced. I pick up my phone and call Brian, this is his basement, I know he can save me. He answers, barely, and I mumble something about needing help and he needs to come down to the couch.

Brian runs down the stairs. He's not wearing a shirt and his hair sticks out at every angle.  He mumbles something about feeling like shit, but notices that I'm on the floor and rushes over to me. He's asking me what's wrong. I'm too weak to really talk. He keeps asking what he can do, and all I can muster is, "water...water..."