When Your Liver Begins a Dialogue and you have to stop playing dumb

I feel my liver talking to me tonight…”Athena, I can’t do this much longer.”

I felt that vibe from my liver area earlier tonight.  I’ve actually been feeling it for a few months but I’d rather ignore it and pretend that’s not real.

I’m really good at pretending shit’s not real.  I have been exceptionally good at denying Hepatitus C for the past 15 years, so you’ll understand my relief at the knowledge of the newfound cure to hep c.  I don’t have to ignore it, anymore, because there’s a cure.

Seriously, when I was like 23, I ended up at Charity Hospital in New Orleans, Louisiana.  I don’t even remember what sent me there.  I was probably just really tired and sick from shooting dirt.  I was homeless at 23, because I had been technically ‘homeless’ since I was 21.  My parents, my dad and my step-mom, who raised me, had “washed their hands” of me, and my real mom was as fucked up as I was, at that time.

My real mom drank herself to death and I guess the apple don’t fall that far from the tree.  Another way to say it might be:  maybe I am that bad of a soul that God wanted me to not only watch my mom drink herself to death, but wanted, also, for me to drink myself to death, too, while my five children watched.

So, at Charity Hospital, I remember waiting in a 14-hour line, the next thing I remember is being in a small examination room with a short, Indian doctor, who told me:  “YOU MUST NEVER, EVER, EVER, EVER DRINK ANOTHER BEER.  NO ALCOHOL.  YOU MUST NEVER DRINK AGAIN.”

I was feeling so bad that I’m sure I was like, “oh yeah, I’ll never do that again”, halfway meaning it.

I suppose I ended up drunk as soon as I could after being released from the hospital and getting me a bag of powder, then shooting it, and then becoming so paranoid that unless I had a xanbar, the only way for me to come back down was to get drunk.

The only reason I ever started drinking in my early 20’s was to kill the paranoid schizophrenia the cocaine induced.  I don’t use the term, ‘paranoid schizophrenia’, lightly, because when I shot dope, that was exactly my diagnosis.  Good thing coke made me skinny, or it would’ve been really hard to position myself in the middle of the side-by-side washer and dryer at that crack house that one time I did that for 4 hours.  My God, the auditory hallucinations alone were as real as, well, the real sound of police kicking in the door and asking for me by my name.

So the part of my abdomen that lies directly beneath the right side of my rib cage is decidedly tender and somewhat achy. I have also been experiencing some other symptoms that I care not to relate.  This sick feeling isn’t really freaking me out, but I think it’s causing the depressive state of mind that I have been ignoring, yet experiencing the last couple weeks….perhaps months.

In my normally depressed mood, I sleep til about 11:30 a.m. or 12:00, after having gone to bed no earlier than 3 a.m. Here, lately, I am not waking until 12:15 p.m and then continue to sleep until 1:30 or 2:00 p.m., when I went to bed by 9 p.m. the previous night.  I really don’t want to get up at 2 but I know my dog probably has to pee, so I get myself up to let him out.  And…my God, when I open that door and the sun hits me, I feel like the undead.  I hate it and wonder why it is that I don’t want to get up anymore.  I love the sun and there is nothing going on here, at home, that should make me not want to arise.  As far as the rest of my life/complaints go, things are fucking great.  In fact, things are better than they have been in a long time.

I really don’t have any complaints…except that one about my firstborn son and his mean and angry father.

Anyhoo…

So now I am at the metaphorical “CROSSROADS”.

Do I want to continue to drink, knowing that my liver light is blinking and bad kidneys run in the family?

Or do I want to just keep on keeping on, refusing to be a quitter, until I meet the reaper again, without him taunting me?

Fuck Decisions.

I hate decisions.

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2 comments

  1. I’m with you there. I didn’t quit drinking or drugs till in my mid 30’s. Was your standard wreck in the kidney department. Remember sitting there one day after a bad hang and thinking: wtf am I doing? This is all so fucking pointless. From that moment I decided to change. Why? Hell if I no, but I began reading, learning, discovering things. Then suddenly I began noticing things around me I hadn’t seen in years: people, the city, life. It was like…. dam, boy, you missed all this shit because you were drunk? I never looked back. I learned one thing in life you have to choose for yourself what the hell you want, no one else is going to give a shit: only you. Of course there are a few here and there that do give a shit. I try to think I do. Otherwise I wouldn’t say what I’m saying. Just don’t take the easy path: suicide. Whatever you do, even if your backed up against the wall mother frekkers… don’t give into the dark well. Even that as Vonnegut says, repeatedly, will pass.

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