It's true that I've been in much physical pain over the last two weeks or so having just restarted my not–at–all physically strenuous work of driving for Private Hire, with an assortment of skeletal pains, cracking bones, and having been ill and then recovering from it only to fall sick again days later. I haven't been sleeping well either, but that's old news at this point.
Maybe I'm just weak. Is that okay? We can't all be strong, right? Are we so obsessed with political correctness that we have to try to be strong regardless, even in our personal lives? I don't particularly think there's much to fix with me physically aside from -, and of course losing a good chunk of my fatness. I mean, sure, a new mattress would be a godsend too, but that's for people with spending power and time to take care of themselves.
My mother on the other hand, seems convinced—hell bent, even—that there's something wrong with my body. That there has to be a problem and a fix. I don't blame her—I used to think like an engineer too. Plus, I know that she's doing all this because she loves me and doesn't want me to suffer. That's why she used to bring me to some... religious Malay person to exorcise some evil spirits that had to have been in me or something, that made me depressed, anxious, explosively angry, and suicidal, paying exorbitant amounts of money for what can only be described as a scam. Right now, she's taking me to see a practitioner of Traditional Chinese Medicine, which I'm trying my best to be level headed and impartial about. I mean, I can't claim to know a "regular" doctor isn't lying through his teeth when diagnosing me and dispensing me medicine, but when I go to a "regular" doctor, I at least have a clear problem I want fixed, like a cold, cough, or fever. No matter how socially inept I may be, even I know walking into a clinic saying, "I want to become stronger" will earn me nothing but confused stares.
I mean, I'm nearly 28 years old at this point and weigh over 120kg. If I don't want to go, there's nothing she can do to make me go. I just... don't want to swat her good intentions away, but oftentimes I feel like I live in a world parallel to that of everyone around me I see. I see them and I can communicate with them, but everything feels so distant and there's never really any understanding exchanged, as if I am an alien: fundamentally different. I feel that way even with my family sometimes.
I'm fairly cynical and critical a person, and I don't know if I trust the doctor. I was told by my mother that I needn't say anything; that they'd touch my palm and be able to know everything about me just from that. The woman did that, and then asked to see my tongue. Finally, she asked me what I was seeing her for. I know that line. It's when I see a professional when they don't know what's wrong with me, like my first two psychiatrists. If I were alone, I'd tell her I don't know, but my mother cut in from there, describing my morning sinus episodes, allergies, and such. The doctor then surmised that I uh... had too much water in me? and then attributed some generic things like my mucus, eczema, and such to that, before recommending that I don't eat too many "cooling" things like cold drinks and—shocker shocker—fucking fruits. Blahblah, some generic advice like exercise and such later, we were done, and I was slapped with a 118 dollar bill for the pleasure. Not even sure if the medication was included in that.
So much of the words spoken in society I find is just to shut the other party up politely by saying what they want to hear, just to get them out of their hair. Or is it just a problem I have?
I felt angry. Frustrated. This is money that I could've used for two psychotherapy sessions. This is money I currently can't afford to spend. I am angry because I feel like a burden, and the fact that I have to see the doctor on a weekly basis angered me even more. I feel incredibly angry that my mother keeps seeking out these hocus pocus things, because I know that no one would turn to the inexplicable if they had any other means they understood. I could tell that even my mother was digging excuses out her ass to explain the situations I was in today. And that made me even angrier. I hate to be the cause of all that. And all this was even before I took my first serving of the goop they call "medication".
It was vile. It was bile. It was sour, bitter, and spicy—three of the worst tastes the human tongue can register, all turned up to a solid twelve. It made my face shrivel, heart race, body sweat, and I could tell my stomach was vehemently rejecting it—quite the story considering it doesn't even react this way to half cooked McDonald's "food". I forced about half of it down between gulps of water before needing a break. It looked like soup but tasted like vomit—I'd know, because the next mouthfuls I took made me hurl with violence I've yet to experience in my life. My nose ran and my eyes teared up. Whatever hole I had on my face was used to expel that venomous soup that I had been forcing down my body.
My throat is still burning and I now have a barf bin beside my bed. I have no idea if I can even sleep well tonight owing to all the water I've had to chug down during and after taking the goop. I don't ever want to touch that shit again. But my mother, an overnight TCM expert, claims that that's the medication working to expel the "toxin" in my body.
I can't live like this. Nor do I particularly want to. I feel stupid. I feel angry. I feel like a guinea–pig. I feel a failure. I feel a wreck. I feel weak. I feel puzzled.
It makes me even angrier because my mom's the one who, after her heart attacks and subsequent surgery, refused to heed the doctors' advice of not consuming sugary things and smoking that much, saying that she'd rather die than lead such a restrictive life. And yet here she is, taking away the cool things I enjoy the most and forcing this vomit venom into me.
Now that I'm done throwing up physically, I find a need to do the same on the mental side. And I didn't even realise how angry I am over the whole debacle prior to penning it down. Oddly, after the physical pain has subsided somewhat, it's my heart that feels the most ache for some reason.
The more I watch romance stories, fictional or otherwise, the more I realise how horrifyingly and fiendishly complex a human being is. I don't think we can even know ourselves fully. I wonder then, how much can a person share of themselves to someone else? My mother was patting my back trying to soothe my discomfort after I threw up. I know she cares and wants the best for me. I just wonder what could possibly possess someone to yearn to pass this down, this love and pain, onto someone else. I wonder what brought me here.
I could never in good conscience subject another soul to the horrors I've experienced and seen in just my 28 years on this earth. I hate my problematic, weak genes. I could never curse another being to have them and live with them. The most I'll do is to take in some rescue and stray cats and give them the love of a family and a hopefully happy life. That's enough for me. Even if I die having achieved nothing, the fact that I end this curse here and now with me I think is something I can feel proud of—and it won't even be hard at all.
*sigh* I can't really claim to be a rational person if I don't give this TCM thing a fair trail, can I?
No comments:
Post a Comment