Como luceros fríos

Sobre el olivar hay un cielo hundido y una lluvia oscura de luceros fríos.

17 February, 2008

Now this inhaler for my asthma is fucking me up, too. My resting heart rate is about 110-120 and I am shaking like a leaf. I have that horrible dry cough that hasn't gone away since November, only it's worse now. Eight days until I see the doctor. My body is telling me that I'm terrified, only I'm not. I can't catch my breath. I want to crawl out of my skin. My brain is vibrating inside my skull. My heart is pounding so hard that I lurch forward a little with each beat. This fucking sucks so much. I'm so frustrated. I'm trying to be calm and to ask myself what my body is trying to tell me, but right now all I can think my body is saying is "FUCK THIS INHALER SHIT IN THE NOSE."

Sunday night is always bleak and full of want. I want to hit my head against the wall just to have a different kind of hurt. I won't, so don't comment telling me not to. But Jesus fuck, it feels like every nerve in my body is jangling. You know that sound phones used to make when you left them off the hook? That's what I sound like to me, in my head, right here and now. I need it to stop. Eight days until I can see the doctor. But I am afraid they will say they don't know what to do for me. That they'll just prescribe inhaler after inhaler until there aren't any more left to prescribe and I can't afford any more fucking meds anyway. This is the nature of psychosomatic illnesses. Nothing works. I can't stop tormenting myself, I just can't stop.

Spring break is coming up soon and I don't know what the fuck I am going to do when I have eleven days of emptiness. It's like eleven Sundays in a row. I wish I could sleep through it all.


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