Being Sick All the Time : Pain Prose




Being sick all the time is some bullshit, Lemme tell you.

I wish you could see these 3-4 inch spikes sticking out of my arms. I wish my kidneys bulged out of my sides in a way that’s noticeable rather than their internal screaming that’s probably the cause of my tinnitus. I wish I could explain my frustration over that mind over matter shit. My mind is alive, sometimes. My mind is overactive. It wants to escape this decaying cell. It’s ready to break me apart. Leave it behind. Never look back.

Being sick all the time is boring, Lemme tell you.

Months blur together and I forget the majority of what I read in two weeks. I’m forgetting the names of my favorite actors. I’m seeing so many movies they’re all just one big projected fever dream that leak into my actual dreams. I do dream, Lemme tell you.

In my dreams I feel fantastic. There’s so much weird shit going on in them that I have an appreciation for the days when the pain is so bad and the only relief is sleep. Sometimes sleep doesn’t happen so easily. One day Benadryl won’t work anymore and my sensitivities to anything stronger than that or Tylenol will revert me back to the insomniatic days of my twenties. When I didn’t want to sleep because there was so much going on in real life. So much to write. So many people to meet. One to four dead end jobs to make it to. I napped today though, Lemme tell you. I was Celia Kaye in Wild Seed in my dream. My drifter was hotter than Michael Parks. A stranger to my subconscious, but the dream police will insist I’ve met him before.

Being sick all the time is a misunderstood lifestyle, Lemme tell you. Yeah, yeah, I hear you. You wish you could lay around all the time. Yeah, yeah…you wish you didn’t have to work anymore. Yeah, yeah…you couldn’t handle being forced inside by the powers that be for a little bit while a plague raged. But, Yeah, yeah…you kinda wish you had my life. Yeah, you want an excuse to not hang out with people. Yeah, I hear you. Yeah, I imagine what your head would look like if it suddenly exploded in front of me. Yeah, I’m going to sit here and nod. Yeah, I’m going to remember this conversation later while I’m writhing in excruciating, untouchable pain. Yeah, I mean it. Nobody touch me. It’ll hurt too much.

Being sick all the time has changed me, Lemme tell you. I’m going on year thirteen and the “maybe it’ll get better” one day sentiment is being said to me less and less. God Bless those who know better. Tomorrow may mean death for all of us. Five minutes from now my heart could stop. Your heart could stop. It’s not fun to have a constant awareness of this, but Lemme tell you, it takes away the fear of dying. Ever tried near dying? That definitely takes away the fear of dying. No, I got a fear of living. Or maybe a fear of living while I don’t feel like it anymore.

Being sick all the time is some bullshit. Wait, I already said that, didn’t I? I’ll say a lot of things over and over just so I comprehend them for myself. Bear with me. You still love me, right?





Published by Jennifer Patino

Poet.