I hate being sick.
I was on quite a healthy run for the past two years… two whole years without being sick once. Now that I think of it, that’s pretty remarkable, and I took my health for granted.
And then karma, luck or whatever you want to call it caught up with me. Struck my cocky lil’ ass like lightning hitting a tree. Now, this is the second time I’ve been sick this month. I’ve gone from the pedigree of health to the office leper of incessant sniffles and coughs. People are avoiding my office like the plague.
And you get those looks, yeah, you know those looks. People in cubes looking down the hallway at you – why the fuck is this guy here? He’s going to get us all sick. What a prick?
Yeah, I know. And I sure as fuck don’t want to be here either. But that’s how the office culture goes. You can take a few days when you’re really bad, but other than that, your ass is expected to be glued to a chair. You’re a company man, right?
So why am I writing about being sick? Who really gives a fuck about this woe is me topic?
Well, how I got started on this tangent was actually memory. Every time I get sick it brings back memories of withdrawals.
Yep, those withdrawals. Drugs. The bad kinds that kill you or at least make looking sick feel like a bright sunny dream that you’d trade anything for.
It’s kind of amazing how soft you become with time. How our memories are selective and filter out the terrible times as not being quite as bad as we remember them. I’ve heard that this is a survival trait in humans. That in order to protect ourselves, we have a natural defense that convinces us traumatic events were not as bad as we remembered them to be.
That got me to thinking: it’s quite remarkable how the passage of time affects our thoughts.
I feel like such a pussy sitting here and wallowing about being sick. Because when I really sit down and scan through the memories of my past, I have nothing to complain about.
Nothing compares with being a slave to a substance, when every aching cell in your body is screaming out for just one more drop.
I think it depends on the person which is worse for them…
I did full-on opiate withdrawals more than 50 times (I hope you can tell by my tone that this isn’t bragging, it’s a nightmare to be avoided at all costs). It was a constant for more than four years in my life playing the functioning addict. But you knew what was coming every 15-20 days when you ran out – a week of torment that you wouldn’t wish upon your worst enemy. The suffering would hit you like a freight train. Hiding in the bathroom curled up in the fetal position wrapped around the toilet, hugging it for dear life.
Simple things. Little things. Like washing a dish or starting the laundry became herculean and insurmountable tasks.
And each bout of withdrawals takes its toll. You recover slower and slower until life becomes a fog. It’s like with every round you lose a piece of your soul until you’re this empty shell of a person. Desolate and beaten. Finally broken. Desperately trying to hold together by a string whatever semblance of a life once lived you can for appearances sake, with the shattered pieces that remain.Â
Then there was a year of DTs (delirium tremens) with alcohol. I’m not going to get into these. Let me suffice it to say you NEVER want to be here. There’s nothing more terrifying than the shaking. Wondering if a seizure will come at any minute and end it all. Planning your every waking existence to make sure you’ll have enough booze in your system every hour so you don’t’ die.
And, oh yeah, Cocaine can be one mother fucker of the darkest depressive lows too. But I was young in those years, only 15-17 years old during that span. But I still remember the ODs and comedowns like it was yesterday. Some pain is wedged so deep that you can never pry it loose.
And yet here I am, complaining about the flu.
It’s funny how quickly our perspectives can change and we lose sight of the big picture. I probably beat it to death on this blog, but mindset and attitude are everything. Yet maintaining that favorable outlook can be so elusive at times.
Why is it this way? Why isn’t it the other way around? Why do negative things tend to overshadow the positive overwhelmingly?
When I sit back and deliberately access my memories, it’s easy to maintain perspective. But I have to do this consciously, and the effort is considerable. Yet when life is busy – as it always is for everyone – I shift back to my default attitude. Little things become irritants again and subconsciously it’s hard to remain focused on the positive and all the grateful blessings in my life.
The distractions are incessant, the stimuli endless, so when do I find the time to shift my vantage point?
Practice and incremental steps pave the way toward progress. Because it has to be a conscious sacrifice, a deliberate dedication to daily improvement. The goal is present living. Enveloping our self in the journey as best we can so that we don’t slip into the destination of tomorrow for the personal hecatomb of today.
I may sniffle and ache today, but when I remember where I have come from, being sick should be the least of my concerns. It’s nothing more than a mild inconvenience, and with all things in life, this too shall pass.
It’s the perspective that matters. At what depth I can gauge my thoughts so the memories are alive.
Can I live in the moment? Or will the effect of time select what memory remains…
-Q-FI
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