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Roomie woke up at 7:45 this morning because he thought I was calling him. I wasn't, but I'd rather he be wrong than ignore me for several hours because he thinks he's hearing things. There's nothing worse than lying in bed for two hours, overheating and trying not to piss the bed because your PCA either can't hear you or doesn't give a shit. Roomie's a heavy sleeper, and he goes to bed much later than I do, so there have been times that I've lain in bed for several hours, sweat trickling down my armpits and my bowels rumbling ominously, because he can't hear me calling him from his room downstairs. It's scary and humiliating, and it's on mornings like that when you forget how good life can be and hate every wretched second of it.
"Gimp! Gimp!" your mind shrieks. "Fuck! You are useless. you can't even get out of bed. Why the fuck are you breathing?" Then, "What are you going to do if he ever dies in his sleep?"
And then you panic because you know exactly what you'll do. You'll die there in that bedroom. Maybe you'll die on the bedroom floor because you mustered enough energy to roll out of bed, but your escape was thwarted by the door handle you can't reach because your knees just don't bend that way anymore. You'll die in that stuffy bedroom, broiling in the summer heat until you're too dehydrated to move. It won't be fast; it might takes you three days. Three days of lying in your own piss with your shirt glued to your back and crying for someone who can't hear you.
You panic and you cry, and you feel so fucking pathetic and stupid because you know you can't get up even to save your own life. And you know you're not going to have any dignity when you die; the CP won't allow it. You'll die alone in some hospital with a cancer-riddled octogenarian in the next bed. You'll die with a tube in your dry old virgin's twat and your veins full of Dilaudid to keep you from making an unseemly fuss. You'll die with your eyes full of soap opera because there's certainly no place for Rammstein on the ward.
You know there's going to be no dignity either way, but you don't want to die that way, cured to beef jerky in your bedroom while your elderly neighbor weedeats the edges of his property. You've got things you want to do. They're small things, but not to you, and not then. You want to watch Rammstein and write fic and write letters to friends you haven't seen since 1996, when you had so many tomorrows.
So you scream because it's the only chance you've got left. You scream and pound the walls and cry until snot plugs your nose and you're baking inside your skin. You scream because you want to be heard before you die, and then the door bursts open and Roomie staggers in, eyes full of sleep and panic. It's the most beautiful sight, and you laugh while snot glistens on your upper lip because you're not going to die your slow, miserable death today.
Five minutes later, you're on the toilet, and five after that, you're in your chair, the panic behind you, the illusion of independence once again in place. Until the next time he sleeps a little too long or a little too hard, and you're trapped in an airless room with no way out.
"Gimp! Gimp!" your mind shrieks. "Fuck! You are useless. you can't even get out of bed. Why the fuck are you breathing?" Then, "What are you going to do if he ever dies in his sleep?"
And then you panic because you know exactly what you'll do. You'll die there in that bedroom. Maybe you'll die on the bedroom floor because you mustered enough energy to roll out of bed, but your escape was thwarted by the door handle you can't reach because your knees just don't bend that way anymore. You'll die in that stuffy bedroom, broiling in the summer heat until you're too dehydrated to move. It won't be fast; it might takes you three days. Three days of lying in your own piss with your shirt glued to your back and crying for someone who can't hear you.
You panic and you cry, and you feel so fucking pathetic and stupid because you know you can't get up even to save your own life. And you know you're not going to have any dignity when you die; the CP won't allow it. You'll die alone in some hospital with a cancer-riddled octogenarian in the next bed. You'll die with a tube in your dry old virgin's twat and your veins full of Dilaudid to keep you from making an unseemly fuss. You'll die with your eyes full of soap opera because there's certainly no place for Rammstein on the ward.
You know there's going to be no dignity either way, but you don't want to die that way, cured to beef jerky in your bedroom while your elderly neighbor weedeats the edges of his property. You've got things you want to do. They're small things, but not to you, and not then. You want to watch Rammstein and write fic and write letters to friends you haven't seen since 1996, when you had so many tomorrows.
So you scream because it's the only chance you've got left. You scream and pound the walls and cry until snot plugs your nose and you're baking inside your skin. You scream because you want to be heard before you die, and then the door bursts open and Roomie staggers in, eyes full of sleep and panic. It's the most beautiful sight, and you laugh while snot glistens on your upper lip because you're not going to die your slow, miserable death today.
Five minutes later, you're on the toilet, and five after that, you're in your chair, the panic behind you, the illusion of independence once again in place. Until the next time he sleeps a little too long or a little too hard, and you're trapped in an airless room with no way out.
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