Purposeless

Stability outside, chaos inside. That is what my life is right now. And saying stability outside may even be a bit of a stretch. But I guess for those who don’t really know me (and even some who do), I appear stable.

I’m not at all stable. I barely know what day of the week it is anymore. I haven’t paid any of my bills this month. I don’t even know why. It’s not like I have a legitimate excuse. I’m not even working. I’m just existing.

I am useless, and not for lack of trying. I tried to get my regular doctor to write a note for me to return to work. Bad idea. It took an hour for me to even get her to consider writing me a prescription for an antiobiotic. An antibiotic. Not a narcotic. I’m just asking for some penicillin, because I clearly have an infection in my lungs that was not going away with steroids alone. And she even agreed. That’s the best part. She knew I needed medication, but told me in fancier words that I was too complicated to treat, between the COPD and my heart condition. I was lucky I got a Z-Pak; getting a note would have clearly just been too much.

So I told myself I’d wait. Just another week, and I can see my cardiologist and she’ll write me that note, she’ll clear me for work. And then I get a call four days before my appointment, with a voicemail that said my cardiologist has resigned and my appointment has been cancelled. The woman on the phone said it like it was no big deal. Even added in the have a nice day. This cardiologist performed my surgery. My cardiac monitor is subscribed to her name. She was a specialist. She was the first one to legitimize my concerns. What in the fuck am I supposed to do now?

I called the office back. I told them I was out of work. I told them I had been in the hospital several times since my surgery and needed to be seen. She told me I could see my old cardiologist, the one that always assumed my heart issues were really just the aftereffects of cocaine abuse and a possible seizure disorder, completely dismissive of anything cardiac despite everyone else telling me my heart is not beating right. Fine. I have no other choice. I’ll take him.

Great. Now let’s get an appointment. Well, he doesn’t have any openings until next month. Are you fucking kidding me? My surgery was in May and I haven’t even had a post-op appointment yet. I have stitches hanging out of my chest that I have tried my hardest not to pull out myself. I am out of work because, understandably, who the fuck wants to be liable for someone working who passes out consistently. But let’s just give it another month. Fine. Because I really have no other choice.

It’s frustrating. I want to scream and cry, but instead all I do is bury it down and put on a smile. I’m good at that. Hide the anger, hide the pain. I hide my tears, too, until I can’t hold them in anymore. Then I run. Out of the house. A few blocks away. And I sit on a bench and cry. And I smoke a cigarette until the pain goes away. I tell myself I’ll smoke just one more, and then it’ll all be fine. That’s what I’ve done my whole life. Just one more line, just one more drink, just one more pill. But it’s never fine. It’s not now, and it never was in the past. Yet I still keep trying. It’s how I ended up on a bench in the middle of a thunderstorm, soaking wet, with an empty pack of cigarettes, wondering why I couldn’t breathe.

I am a mess. Not wanting to die, but not caring if I exist. Because I feel purposeless.

People tell me my intelligence, my grad school work gives me purpose, but it doesn’t to me. I just finished a year of graduate school and maintained a 4.0 GPA, but it just doesn’t matter to me. I didn’t put forth any effort. I didn’t study. Hell, I took my last final drunk and started and finished my final project in the hour before it was due, and I still managed to pull 100s. That is not effort. That is not purpose. That just is.

My intelligence does not give me purpose. If anything, it only causes me more pain. Knowledge hurts. Because I know how to fix the damage in others, yet I can’t seem to fix the brokenness within myself. If I didn’t know any better, it wouldn’t bother me as much. I’d just be broken.

How can I plan for a future when I don’t even know what’s happening now? There are things I’ve accepted. I won’t have a family. I won’t live as long as planned. I am sick, and I will be sick for the rest of my life. But how can I plan around that?

I dreamed of being a therapist because I wanted to help people in ways I wished people helped me, I wanted to make a difference. But that dream isn’t realistic now. I can’t be a therapist with DID. I know they exist, but they have to exist in hiding. Because the world will never accept them.

I don’t know how to make a difference outside of that. I can’t stop every child abuser. I can’t make people understand that mothers abuse their children, too. I can’t get people to open their eyes to truths they don’t want to see. So what is my purpose?

Beyond housework, I am nothing right now. I keep busy as much as I can. I wash the dishes. I do the laundry. I sweep the floors, vacuum the rug, take care of the dogs. But in the moments where there’s no more laundry, there’s nothing left to clean, and the dogs are asleep…those are the moments that scare me. Those are the moments I hear my mother’s voice, telling me I am nothing, that I am a burden.

Those are the moments I sit and realize that I am purposeless.

My father was not a father.

The only picture I have of my father is the one I took from his obituary when he died last year. That’s it.

I still laugh to myself when I come across his obituary.

David B. M., 60, of Belleville, passed away Monday July 4, 2016.
Mr. M was employed by the United States Postal Service for 35 years, retiring 9 years ago.

That was the main part of his obituary, aside from the location of his memorial and who he was survived by. The most important statement that should summarize a person’s life, and his was that he happened to have a decent job as a federal employee. No he was a loving husband and father. No words of greatness or how amazing a person he was. Just that he lived, worked, and died.

And as brief and vague as his obituary was, it was the truth. He was no loving father, no doting husband. He was a man who worked and died. It’s what he did in between that will never be written in any obituary, or acknowledged by anyone.

This is the first Father’s Day that my father is not alive, but not the first he’s been absent from. He died long before his actual death. He was physically alive, but mentally and emotionally dead for a long time. And it wasn’t just because of his illness. I know he spent the last years of his life in misery. I know that he wanted to die. And I know that my mother wanted him to die, too, because his death came with a decent payment. She did not love him. He was a burden to her, a roadblock to her moving forward with whatever game she calls her life.

But I refused to treat him like she did. I did my best to take care of him regardless of my hatred towards him for all that he had done to me. And it took everything in me to not take him with me when I ran away, because I knew he would not survive long after my absence. I wanted to save him from her, even though he never saved me from her when he was strong and able.

My father didn’t die because he was so heartbroken over my absence, as my mother would like me and others to believe. He died because he had multiple heart attacks, a stroke, congestive heart failure, and a plethora of other health conditions that he was lucky enough to survive as long as he did with.

It’s so complicated, that simultaneous hatred and love for someone. It’s not the same experience I have with my mother — I only have hatred for her. But my father was different. He wasn’t like her. In many ways, he was a victim of her, just like my brother was (and still is), just like I was. And I think that’s why I felt sorry for him. I think that’s how I rationalized his treatment of me. He acted that way because of her. As if he didn’t know any better.

But that’s my child-like way of looking at him, because adult me knows he had to know better. My mother may have asked him to hold me down while she hurt me, but my father is the one that lifted his arms to hold down mine. My mother may have been yelling, but my father is the one that chose to beat me and bash my head into the kitchen wall.

My father could have chosen to walk away. He could have chosen to divorce her. He could have fought for custody. In the very least, he could have told her “this is not okay” every night she took me into the shower. But he did none of that, and that was his choice, not hers.

My love for my father is not so much love for him, but love of the idea of what I wanted him to be, of what I wanted to be to him. I wanted to be daddy’s little girl. I wanted to feel worthy of love, worthy of care, worthy of support, worthy of not being hurt all of the time just for existing. I wanted him to hug me. I wanted him to tuck me into bed at night. I wanted him to teach me things that only fathers know.

And I wanted him to save me. Because he was the only person in my life that could have saved me from my mother. He was the only person in my life who knew exactly what mommy was doing to her children every night. But he chose apathy. He chose inaction. He chose her over himself. He chose her over his children.

If heartbreak killed my father, it wasn’t heartbreak over me leaving; it was heartbreak over knowing what he did and didn’t do.

If my father had just said no, if he had just said stop, all our lives could be different right now. He could still be alive. My mother would be in prison. My brother would be free, maybe even married to a nice woman instead of married to his own mother.

And I would still have my family, a father that loved me, and a life without hurt.

Instead, I am spending Father’s Day reminded of all the ways my father was never really a father. Because real fathers don’t hurt their children. Real fathers don’t watch their children suffer. Real fathers put their children first. My grief is not in missing my father, it’s in missing what I wanted him to be.

I just wanted him to save me. Was that so much to wish for?

Don’t you know, I’m cured now.

I feel frustrated.

I feel like no matter how much progress I make, it’s not enough.

I am here, but I guess I have to be over there.

I’m a 31 year-old woman with no husband, no children, no job, no financial stability, who’s currently living in the basement of her former manager’s home. I get that is pathetic in more ways than one.

I also struggle to make decisions. Sometimes I only eat because people tell me to eat. Sometimes I only use my nebulizer because people remind me to. Sometimes I have to call for help when I’m stuck in situations and I can’t make a decision, like the times I end up in the hospital. Sometimes I need someone to go to the doctor with me because I know I won’t be as open as I should. Sometimes I need help getting words out and using my voice because I’m still afraid to say anything more than I’m okay.

And I guess that’s not enough. I’ve been 23 months free now, don’t you think I should be cured? Is 23 months enough time to erase more than 29 years of damage?

It’s not. At least not for me. And I realize that can be as frustrating for other people as it is for me. Trust me, I wish I was an independent woman right now, in great health, with a successful career and a family. But I am not. I still need help. I still need direction. I am still learning how to be a normal person.

And I am still trying. Even as my health continues to decline, I am still trying to live whatever life I can. I am still trying to have experiences I never got to have. I am still trying to try.

But I’m not sure it’s enough for some people. They don’t understand why I’m not recovered yet. They can’t comprehend why I’m still not okay. They tell me I haven’t made enough progress. It’s like throwing a 2 year-old orphan out into the world and expecting her to figure out how to get through life on her own before preschool starts.

I had to start from scratch when I escaped 23 months ago. I had to learn a whole new way of life. And admittedly, I didn’t have the very best start with that, either. But I am working on it now. I am in a much better place physically. I have a support system, however small it may be. I am talking about my feelings and things that are bothering me instead of instantly shutting down.

But I still shut down. I’m still not cured. I’m still not at 31 year-old adult level. I’m still a burden on people who I should never have to be a burden to.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m not cured. I’m sorry I haven’t made enough therapeutic progress. I’m sorry I’m not healed. I’m sorry I still fuck shit up. I’m sorry I still need to ask for help.

I’m sorry I’m not where you think I should be. How can I be a role model when no one was ever a role model for me?

I am tired of never being good enough for anyone. I thought that was over now.

I’m a Liability

Do you understand the consequences of your condition? You cannot be out by yourself. Do you understand? You can be walking down the street, pass out, get hit by a bus, and die. You can pass out and stop breathing, and the lack of oxygen will cause you to be brain-dead. This is serious. I need you to verify that you understand the risk you’re taking.

I laid in my hospital bed, listening as the doctor in charge continued on her lecture. I laughed to myself. There were so many things I wanted to say, half in sarcasm, half in truth, but I knew saying them out loud would likely end up with me being put on a psych hold. I repeated her words back to her. My voice lacked the care and concern that hers did. This wasn’t anything new for me. This was my normal.

I didn’t wake up that Tuesday morning expecting to end up in a hospital bed later that night. It was a regular day. I woke up, took a shower, unloaded the dishwasher, and put a load of laundry on before heading to work. It was a slow day to start. I walked home on my lunch break to let the dogs out and take some cough medicine, as I hadn’t been feeling well since the night before. I walked back to work and planned to finish out the next couple of hours with no problems.

But it didn’t quite happen that way. I knew something wasn’t right. I was walking down the aisle and I could feel my heart racing and stopping, racing and stopping. I kept telling myself in my head please, not here. I was barely two weeks into the job. I didn’t want to pass out there. I hadn’t even informed anyone of my heart condition until a week after I started the job, and it was only because my therapist thought it was necessary. None of my coworkers knew; only the manager. I didn’t want anyone to know because I didn’t want people to overreact. I didn’t want anyone to treat me differently. I just wanted to be normal.

Time had passed and I could still sense something was wrong. I couldn’t breathe. At one point, I could barely speak. I motioned to the assistant to take care of a customer for me, and I must have looked off because she ran to get me a chair. I just wanted to be okay. This is going to pass. This needs to pass. I sat down, hoping that would help. I tried to breathe, which was harder than normal because I had also been sick.

I don’t know how long I was sitting for, but I ended up falling over onto the floor. I looked up to find my coworker kneeling at my side, another was on the phone with 911. I’m okay, I just need a minute. Why did they have to call 911? I don’t need help. I’m fine.

But people still don’t believe me when I say I’m fine. The paramedics ended up taking me to the nearest hospital. I gave them my history, told them I had the internal heart monitor. They couldn’t get any information from the monitor because I didn’t have my ID card on me, and it wasn’t the same hospital where my surgery was done. So all they could do was run tests.

EKG was normal, x-ray showed an enlarged heart with inflammation in the lungs. They started me on IV steroids and breathing treatments. I thought the focus had shifted from passing out to not being able to breathe. After a couple of hours, the heart monitor was off and the breathing treatments stopped. A doctor came in to tell me I had been admitted, and I immediately starting panicking. Why? All I’m doing is sitting up in bed, unattached to anything but a Pulsox on my finger.

You passed out. Well yea, I pass out a lot. I still wore the bruise on my forehead from two days earlier, when I passed out and hit my head on the tiles of my bathroom floor. This was just my life now. Pass out, get up, move on. I’ve been doing it for years now, though not nearly as frequently as the last few months. It became just another part of my life to cope with.

I didn’t want to be admitted so they could watch me all night. I could do that myself, at home, free from the PTSD reactions that hospital admissions continue to cause me. I called J in tears, begging her to come pick me up. She knows I don’t like hospitals, but also knows that sometimes I have to be there. And I know that, too. But this wasn’t necessary. I didn’t need to stop my life just so they could make sure I didn’t pass out again.

So that’s why I got that lecture. I told them I did not want to be there. I told them it was difficult for me emotionally. I wanted J to be there to help me make sure I was making the right decision, because I admit I’m not so good at that most times. But she agreed, too. They weren’t doing anything to help me. She told them the same thing I had told them — this is what we’ve been dealing with for months now, and we just deal with it until we know more.

I signed the paper and I left. The risks weren’t new to me. They were the risks I had been taking every day. And I would continue to take them.

Except that not everyone wants to take those risks with you. The next morning, my manager sent me a text. She had already taken me off the schedule for the rest of the week and next. She asked me to turn in my keys. I needed a note before I could return back to work. A note I knew I wasn’t going to be able to get. I was now a liability.

I get it. They can’t have employees passing out. It was a fear I had myself, knowing that there were times I was going to be alone in the store. I get the liability.

But now I am stuck. No one wants to employ anyone who’s going to pass out at random. My disability was denied. I’m not making any money. I’ve spent the last week in and out of hospitals not just because I passed out that one time, but because my COPD is so out of control, in combination with my messed up heart, that no doctor wants to treat me.

I went to urgent care on Thursday hoping to get a prescription for steroids before my breathing went to absolute shit, and I ended up being sent to the hospital again. He told me he didn’t feel comfortable treating me. It wasn’t just the breathing. It was my heart. My heart rate was low — way too low for normal, and especially low considering it should have been higher to compensate for the extra work it needed to do to help me breathe. Something wasn’t right, and as soon as he heard I had a heart condition, I became a liability.

I feel stuck in a situation with no happy ending. No matter what I do, I am a liability.

After all, I can walk down the street, get hit by a bus, and die, right?

But so can anybody. So why do I have to be treated so differently?

 

 

No answers

I call my dead father’s cell phone. He never answers, because he’s dead and the phone is disconnected. But I still keep calling. I still keep hoping he answers the phone.

I’m not sure why I keep calling. There’s just so many things I want to say to him. There’s so many questions that I want answered. But he’s dead, burned to ashes, gone away forever.

Why didn’t you stop her? Why did you help her? Why didn’t you protect us? Why did you become just like her?

He leaves me with no answers.

Sometimes I call my mother’s cell phone. She never answers, either, but she’s not dead, and the phone isn’t disconnected. It just rings and rings then goes to voicemail.

I left her a voicemail once. I told her I was sorry for being a failure, for being a bad daughter. I asked her for forgiveness.

I wanted her to answer. I wanted her to tell me she missed me. I wanted her to tell me she loved me and that it was all just a big mistake. I wanted her to tell me she was sorry, too. I wanted a mother. I wanted her to give me a reason to live, because in that moment, I had planned to kill myself, and I wanted to feel an ounce of love before I died.

I still call her, hoping one day she will answer. But I don’t call her to apologize. I call her because I want answers.

I want to know what I did wrong.  I want to know why she hurt me.

I want to know how she lives every day knowing what she did to her children, knowing what she did to others. How does it not eat her up inside? How does she get through the day feeling worthy enough to still be alive?

I want her to know how I live every day, constantly reminded of what she did to me. I want her to know that I am eaten up inside. I want her to know that most days, I still struggle to find myself worthy enough to still be alive.

I want her to know she broke me. Every time she raped me, beat me, burned me, bruised me, made me sick…she shattered me.

I want to know if she knows that. I want to know how that makes her feel. I want to know if she even feels at all.

I called her again the other day. I didn’t want to ask her anything. I didn’t want an answer.

I wanted to tell her I didn’t need her anymore. I wanted to tell her goodbye. I wanted to tell her fuck you.

Because now I know the problem was never with me. It was with her.

Sometimes, there are no answers. And sometimes, there are answers hidden within no answers.

This is not my family.

I still remember what my mother wrote to me

You made your decision to disown your family.

It wasn’t a decision to disown my family. It was a decision to save my life.

And I am reminded of that decision every day.

I left a life behind. A life I can never go back to. A life full of people I can’t see anymore.

One of my best friends graduated from college last week. I wanted to be there to support him, in the same way he was there to support me when I graduated college last year. But I couldn’t. I could only experience his moment through pictures he posted on social media. Because I can never go back to that place again. I can never take the risk of my mother seeing me, of finding me, of hurting me. I can never return to the only place I knew for 29 years of my life, my home, my friends, my family. And that hurts in a way I’m not sure I can ever explain in words.

For all those months after my escape, I went through my hardest moments alone. I spent holidays alone. I stayed in the hospital alone. I struggled to explain to every person taking down my information that I had no emergency contact, no next of kin, no person to notify. No mother? No father? No siblings? No one? They could never seem to understand how I had no family. Didn’t they hear? I disowned my family.

And now here I am, smack dab in the middle of a family that is not my own. I’m going through shit with people by my side from a family that is not my own. I am spending time with people from a family that is not my own. I am living in a house that is not my home.

Now it’s different. I went to the cardiologist appointment with someone by my side, someone who cared enough to take the time to come with me, because she knew I wasn’t going to speak up for myself. But she doesn’t know I don’t speak up for a reason. She doesn’t understand I’ve been trained not to speak up for myself.

I went through my surgery with her by my side. As the cardiologist stitched up my incision, she said “I’m going to go out and tell your mother how everything went.” In that moment I realized that’s who should be here: my mother, my family. Instead here was this woman, of no relation to me, standing by me through a hard time. She isn’t my mother, but she cares and supports me more than my biological mother ever did, strong enough that even my doctor mistook her for my own family member.

I always dreamed of having a real family, but I never knew what it looked like. I didn’t really imagine other people, I just imagined my parents being different. I imagined living a life with a mother who didn’t rape and abuse, and a father who hugged instead of hit. I imagined going out places instead of being stuck inside of that prison. I imagined that they would change, but they never did.

Thirty-one years later, I found that family. A normal family where I don’t have to be afraid to go to bed at night and I can eat food without being punished for it and I can go outside and see the world whenever I want. I found a family with a man who asks if I’ve done my homework every Friday, because he knows I have a paper due that night. I found a family with a teenager that asks where I’m going each time there’s a stranger parked outside the house waiting to pick me up for a date. I found a family with a kid I can joke around with so much, we both end up rolling on the floor. I found a family with a woman who tells me goodnight and gives me a hug before she goes to sleep. I found a family that makes sure I’m eating enough, a family that always makes sure I have what I need.

It’s a normal family. It’s a family I never experienced. And it’s not my family. Because I’m not sure I fit into a normal family. I am not sure it’s fair for them to have to deal with me. It’s not fair for them to have to make sure I am eating like a normal person. It’s not fair for them to have to hold my head off the floor every time I pass out. It’s not fair for them to care for me, when I can barely find it within me to care about myself. I am a burden. And they did nothing to deserve that.

As much as I’m included in everything they do, I still feel like an outsider. I feel like someone who doesn’t belong. Because I don’t belong. This is not my family. I am alone. In the middle of a room full of people, as crazy as some of them may be, I am the only one that doesn’t belong.

It’s ironic. My own family treated me like the outsider my whole life. Yet the truth is I never belonged with them anyway, because I was nothing like them. And now, with a family who is treating me like I belong, I find myself pushing away.

I ended up crying in the corner of the living room yesterday. The family had a barbecue. Other family members were there. And for a few hours I felt okay. I talked, I listened, I even got dragged into a mini-trip with a woman who had just learned my name. And then right before dinner, something clicked in me. This is not my family. I do not belong here. It hit me like a ton of bricks.

They sat down together in the kitchen and I isolated myself in the corner of another room. I knew I was going to cry. I tried so hard to hold in the tears. I tried to look at my phone, act busy, but then she came over to ask if I was okay and I just knew I wouldn’t be able to hold the tears in anymore.

She asked if it was my heart. I knew she meant my arrhythmia, so I said no. But my heart was broken in a different way, a way that I can barely explain. A broken heart that continues to break each time I realize all that I never had.

She knew something was wrong and kept asking me what it was, and I kept trying to hold it all in. I’m fine. I finally broke down and told her, this isn’t my family, this is yours. I couldn’t hold in the tears anymore. She grabbed tissues and tried to comfort me, while blocking me from everyone else in the other room. She told me that I was family, that she adopted me, that I belong. She had told me it all before, but it still didn’t feel right.

I got what I always dreamed of as a little girl. Love, care, support, safety, and all of the things a real family should be. Yet even though I am the safest, happiest, and most balanced I have ever been, I am still reminded of what I don’t have: my family. They are gone forever. Some dead, some gone away, some too dangerous to recognize they exist, but regardless, still gone. I am one standing, both disowned by my family and disowned to them.

This is not my family. I don’t want to be a burden to them.

I don’t understand how I got here.

You’re so young

But you’re so young.

I heard that exact phrase at least two dozen times over the last two weeks.

It wasn’t the first time I heard it. I’m sure as hell it won’t be the last. But hearing it over and over and over again day in and day out made me want to scream out loud. I didn’t, of course. I only screamed on the inside.

I know that the people saying it weren’t saying it to be negative, but they didn’t realize that every time I heard that phrase, it was like a tiny jab to my already damaged heart. I know I’m young. You don’t need to remind me. I know I’m sick. You really don’t need to remind me.

I can’t blame them, though. I’m 31 years-old with a disease that affects the elderly. They see my COPD diagnosis and they don’t understand it. And then they want to ask questions. How much did you smoke? How long were you a smoker? I can never seem to tell them I only started smoking after I got sick. I can never explain to them how I grew up and lived in a (literal) toxic environment, how I spent most of the last 17 years in and out of hospitals. It wasn’t just the cigarettes that gave me COPD. It was my life.

It’s hard for many people to realize just how much trauma affects the body. I see it all the time. I’ve never met a person with PTSD who wasn’t struggling with at least one type of physical problem. The effects of trauma aren’t just on the mind.

My body started giving up long ago. It wasn’t just about the broken bones, the bruises, the damage it withstood on a regular basis. Every last bit of energy is spent trying to survive. After awhile, the body can’t fight anymore. There’s no way to win the war. So things break down in ways they shouldn’t, way earlier than they should. Broken mind, broken body.

But most people don’t understand the connection. They don’t want to hear about the trauma, about the battle you endured that brought you to this point. They want hard facts spoken in brevity.

I don’t bother with facts. I don’t bother with the truth. Just bad luck, I guess. That’s what I tell them. As if luck has been the one and only cause of my destruction. Luck took away the cartilage in my knee. Luck caused me to get COPD. And now luck has led me to a heart problem that has yet to be solved.

Fuck luck. Fuck genetics. I want people to realize the connection to trauma. I want them to stop telling me I’m so young, and start asking how I really ended up here. I want somebody to stand up and realize that I am breaking, not because of luck, not because of genetics, and not all because of my own doing. There was and is something more here.

I want to be able to tell them the truth. My heart is weak because it’s tired. Thirty one years of my life has been constant stress and fear. I’m surprised it still beats at all, to be honest. Why hasn’t it given up on me yet? Why does it try to quit and then get knocked back into beating?

And just when I thought it was over, the appointment was done, the surgery was done, the questions were done — it happened again.

The manager of cardiac unit called me the following day to check and see how I was doing post-surgery. I told her everything was okay (except for some mild pain), and then there was an awkward silence. Then I heard her again. Do you mind if I ask?  You’re so young, why did you have this done? We’ve only ever had to do this with older patients.

I really wanted to say wait, you mean not every 30-something has a heart monitor implanted into their chest? Instead I told her the basic passed out a few times, they found an arrhythmia, completely downplaying the fact that I passed out way more than a few times and I had a collection of issues that included more than just an arrhythmia.

She’s right. All these people are right. I am too goddamn young to be dealing with this shit.

But I am dealing. I am living life as if nothing is wrong. Because that’s how I learned to live.

And that’s what got me here.