i spent about six hours in the emergency wing of the hospital yesterday because for some reason I was getting these sharp twinges of pain on the left side of my chest, repeatedly, for hours. They ran tests and determined I was fine, but everyone agreed it was better I came in what with the stroke in my past and all. I’m glad it wasn’t anything dangerous, but it would also be nice to know what it was.
Very tired today. I ended up having to take two ativan while there cause they did blood and I could feel panic starting, and then hours later they wanted to put an IV port in and that always freaks me out. Didn’t even end up using the port. Oh well. The nurses were all very kind and accommodating my extremely annoying needle issue.
You know that problem when you get mad angry at seeing your field being grossly misrepresented in media.
At this point I shouldn’t be bothered anymore but it irks me when it catches me off guard.
I… suspended… all my disbelief in Carla’s kidney storyline cz she’s Carla and the medical part of a storyline being shitty is just par for the course everywhere anytime.
But allowing someone into the Critical Care Unit seemingly with no identity check, no family relation, outside the visiting hours and leaving them alone?? With the patient???????1?1?1?1?1?1??
Something I wrote during literature class yesterday. We’re studying the Laramie Project, which for me, a queer kid who grew up in a country town and in a Christian family whose friend got murdered in a town tragedy - well, let’s just say that it hits a little too close to home.
Poetry taglist (shoot me an ask if you want to be added!):
@my-liminal-spaces @oasis-of-you @birdywrites @countshrekula @a-paper-crane
Transcript under the cut:
I thought it would hurt less now, but Good God these wounds are still raw.
And the way that my stomach has dropped - it defies all the logic I have.
What method is there in hurt? I could cry over this - I can feel it.
Building behind my eyes where all my memories coalesce.
Swirling and forming and rising and falling in a sickening, twisted dance.
Good God, Good God, GOOD GOD! A God I don’t even believe in.
Not anymore. These days, I don’t even know what I am.
Discordant labels overlap in a thousand clashing places on my skin.
The scars that mottle the backs of my hands are a legacy.
Where our paths touched, just for a little while. A few precious moments.
Before bullets and bloodstains cut you away like a knife.
Before the unravelling, as all the hurt and healing in me wound themselves away.
And I found myself there, in the chaos. And I am stitching my parts back together.