“He [Kurt Cobain] was just sick and tired of being sick and tired.”
– from Heavier Than Heaven
At the time when I am suffering from physical and mental exhaustion, to put it mildly, this quote from probably one of the best books I’ve read this year just summed up all the bottled feelings and signs that manifested voraciously in a short span of time. As shooting heroin was Cobain’s primarily method of escape (aside from writing), my head is inhabited by an incessant desire, a craving, to physically withdraw from everything. Without my books and my notebook, I would have been caged in my own head. This note is the tamest of the thoughts I’ve had in the past few days, collectively brewing in my head. I feel like an addict desperately wanting to recover, yet cannot, because the addiction itself is just an underlying problem for a much graver condition.
After a battery of tests and endless needle-prodding, I can breathe through the fact that my heart is in excellent shape. But it’s not a cause for celebration. Anemia, dermatographic urticaria (a rare form of skin allergy), hyperacidity coupled with GERD (commonly known as acid reflux), and anxiety – pathological conditions requiring blister packets after blister packets of antacids, proton pump inhibitors, different kinds of vitamins (Centrum is not enough, I also take vitamins C and B Complex), antihistamine, and benzodiazepine – a first time I was prescribed a yellow category drug, not dispensed lightly on pharmacies.
On top of that, I quit my job. My body just can’t take the toll.
Life at 23. This is my life for now.
Merry fucking Christmas to me.
Upside: I have nine new books. Cost around five thousand and so, but fuck it. They ARE my heroine.