I shattered my deodorant this morning. I threw — no, not threw, I chucked it so hard against the cinder block walls of my bedroom that smithereens of plastic decorated the floor. Destroying something filled me with more distress than the short lived relief of watching it shatter.
We are given a finite amount of time to breathe on this planet.
In an infinite universe that stretches across never-ending space filled with stars and nothingness, we are assured of one thing: one day, we will cease to exist; like a star that has outlived its shine and propels into blackness, as we look up into the vastness with our telescopes and make a wish on its death. We smile and point as the flash of our long-lost relative in the sky takes its last flight; something in our carbon, oxygen, and nitrogen make up becomes enlivened by our twinkling twin taking her last breath.
I have two blood clots in my right arm. The one is superficial and the other is a Deep Vein Thrombosis. Both are from the PICC line that fed me nutrients while I was in the hospital, unable to eat as a result of my Crohn’s flare. A PICC line is a long tube that is inserted into the bicep and runs about eight inches through a vein towards the chest. The line can be used for nutrients (called a TPN, which is basically just the vital nutrition that the body needs to survive) and it can be used for infusions or drawing blood from for labs. They are awesome and a pain in the ass at the same time — I didn’t have to get stuck with needles every day, but I had three little portals sticking out of my arm, hooking me up to machines for almost two weeks. Having one creates a risk of a developing clots, and having Crohn’s puts me at risk anyway.
I used to run away to a tree stand. It was the place that I could feel at home and stable when life was anything but.