I remember the first time I had to drive myself to the emergency room, leaving my ex sleeping in the first bed we ever shared. My eardrum had blown out, and he didn’t care. I dragged myself sideways down the emergency room corridor, and with little hearing I remember the hollowness of my voice when they asked me if I came alone, the echoing “Yes” sinking what felt like forever from the back of my throat to the bottom of my spine. I could barely hear the outside world, and I was alone. Yes, I was alone, much moreso than the nurse realized, and I realized it right then. A random stranger was more interested in my wellbeing than the man whose cum I still had inside me.
I’m crying anyway. I’m afraid the surgery didn’t work, I am in pain again and physically, with my hand on my body, it doesn’t feel right. I’m back to the state that I was when I started this page, waking up crying for no reason and then writing long streams of conscious thought to see if I can pick out some reason why, like examining the vomit of a suicide attempt victim to see if you can find any of the pills, to know what poison to treat for.