I’ve got a half pint of Jameson’s and it’s going rather quickly.
Some pretty awful things (in the context of being a western woman who is not starving, sleeping outside or being beaten) happened today and I’m drowning them rather unsuccessfully.
I was briefly caught in the medical industrial complex where they tie you to a chair and brutalize with you with one hand and steal the money out of your pocket with the other all while saying they are trying to help you while making you feel pitiful and less worthy in some way.
If it all could have been done with cards, curtains and magic wands it would have been entertainment. Instead it was just another day of mechanized madness veneered with elevator music in a swanky office.
Doctors and dentists should not have offices of decorator furniture, hard wood floors and marble counters with brushed stainless fixtures. It’s like saying, “Hey I’m going to trade off your misery and brag about it..is that cool?”
They should also not squeeze you in between twenty other people and leave you in a chair with your head lower than your feet for 45 minutes at a stretch with your mouth propped open or in a gyno chair staring at the pictures of kittens romping on the ceiling.
That shit does not help anyone.
But what’s really under all this Jameson’s and rage is pure vulnerability. I could not leave, I was in pain and my body decided to go into a full panic response of sweating, nausea and racing heart. I could not even get up to vomit in private.
I had to breathe my way through it and an hour or so later it was over. The kicker: they still didn’t get it right so I have to go back again and relive it- again. It’s not just this medical procedure. But every time we are hurt by the machine. They all come back making for the sense of one hard feeling of being helpless and afraid.
The machine grinds on, the doctors see the next patient and we limp down the road. Another day, another dollar.
That’s my life and your life and the guy next to you at the store. It’s lonely, miserable and fucked. We should care. We really should.
I’m mad as hell about how me, you, my friends and family are all being reduced to less than a number. At least a number has a place it belongs.
Only the super elite can admit they missed a message or left their phone at home. The rest of us crunch along at the will of literally everyone else. We are strapped to chairs by people who go home to lovely McMansions. We are shuffled through systems and one day deposited on a slab at the morgue with a toe tag that will, most likely, have our name spelled wrong.
I didn’t sign up to be one of the little people, the man who lives his life of quiet desperation. Did anyone? Did any of us dress up on Halloween as us?
Not always, not most days, but tonight I am disappointed in me.
You want to understand why we have angry young herds of traveling guys? They didn’t sign up for that either. They’d rather be stupid, pissed off and fighting the machine than be part of it. They’re wrong of course. They will be ground to powder by it. They will be arrested, they will be beaten by drunks, they will be drunks and they will die alone. It will not work out. Still, somehow, I relate to their fight.
So what will I do with all this pain, vulnerability and these words? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I do not expect one person to hear me. I do not expect one thing to change. I will take my broken pieces, sweep them into clothes, brush my teeth and hair, smile at strangers, toss a buck to the buskers and go on. No one has time to care that sometimes my life hurts, always has, always will and no one will probably care that about you either. Although–not to sound better than anyone because you can clearly read here that I am not–I do kind of care about the ways you are broken and do kind of wish I could hug you if I knew you.
I do wish. Still.