Medicated

I need more meds.

The dawn of a prescribed tranquilizing medication cocktail had begun–at the blinding peer of morning sunrise through the bedroom curtains.

With no time to install the box-frame air-conditioning unit the night prior, I could feel the ungroomed sticky texture of June humidity, across the surface of my skin. The ripe smell of residual fear lingering through a panic-ridden pool of sweat under my back. A disorienting morning reminder of my violent violation. 

“Why did people ever create popcorn ceilings?” I thought to myself, as I looked up at the stucco textured wall. 

My legs felt placid in comparison to my upper body. Isolated in their own, former, pain-free world–separated from the new-world ligament disconnection, of my left shoulder. Long muscled reminders of what my body was fully capable of.

Relaxed symbols of independence.

Photo re-enactment image: “Independently, I stiffly worked to push my body up toward the left side of the bed with the exhausted strength of my right arm. As I looked over at the bloodied towel under my left shoulder, I felt the confusion my brain made in its distant scramble to connect movement, with the disconnected ligaments and broken muscle structures of my left shoulder.”

“I think…I need to take a shower”, I quietly say to myself. 

“What are you trying to do?”, my partner croaks through groggy awareness of my quiet self-conversation. 

Independently, I stiffly worked to push my body up toward the left side of the bed with the exhausted strength of my right arm.

As I looked over at the bloodied towel under my left shoulder, I felt the confusion my brain made in its distant scramble to connect movement, with the disconnected ligaments and broken muscle structures of my left shoulder. 

I needed relief. 

A moment to wash off the anguish of the previous night. A moment of solitude to process the spiritual pain I had just endured. A moment of cleansing escape from the barrier defenses my nervous system was now required to hold. A moment to reconnect with the softness of my body. 

“Let me help you up”, he offered, as I slowly examined the hours aged burgundy bleed through under his stitched right arm gauze. 

Pushing away from his support, I attempted to rely on the standing strength of my lower limbs. A simple swivel from right to left was all I needed, to shift my legs from the elevated position of the bed, to the bedroom floor. 

I felt my left arm buckle.

“Ooooww”, I winched through tears. 

He quickly jumped up walking around to the left side of the bed.

The wavering ligaments of my left shoulder felt like the flimsy nature of a screen door, on a Summer’s day in the wind. My shoulder ligaments acting as loose hinges compared to the snug muscle security my left shoulder needed to support the prop pressure of my right arm.

In an attempt to slow the incoming rush of pain–through closed eyes, I reached for my left elbow with my right hand, leaning forward on the bed with weak abs strength to place my feet on the ground. 

I felt his hands on my shoulders.

“Take your time”, he assured. 

Re-enactment image: “As the music filled the space, my partner observed me in stunned confusion, standing distantly in the kitchen as I moved in a slower than typical cleaning speed around the flat. Cleaning two rooms at once–pulling, tossing and simultaneously scanning the room for objects in need of dusting and rearranging. After 5 minutes of silent protest, his posture softened as he reluctantly joined in the cleaning spree–taking to the kitchen sink to tackle unkempt dishes.”

As I made footing toward the bathroom door, looking around at our one-bedroom flat–our home was a mess. Clothes were thrown, unclean dishes, disorganized covers, and pillows. 

“We have to clean up before my parents arrive”, I say with concern to my partner.

This would be my parent’s first visit since our engagement–under less-than-ideal circumstances. Regardless, I knew my parent’s standards for cleanliness and my personal standards for hosting. 

My anxiety shifted as I quietly started to pick-up household items with my right hand. 

“Jasmine…we have time for that–let’s get you into the shower”, he pleads. 

Disregarding his suggestion, I continued to pick things up. Cleaning has always been a method of reasoning for me–a moment to control the chaos through my immediate environment. A physical way of clearing the clutter of my thoughts through the ritual of emptying space. Storing away objects and discarding the rummage within my physical space and mental mind.

“Google, play Lo-fi music…”, I commanded the Google home smart system. 

As the music filled the space, my partner observed me in stunned confusion, standing distantly in the kitchen as I moved in a slower than typical cleaning speed around the flat. Cleaning two rooms at once–pulling, tossing and simultaneously scanning the room for objects in need of dusting and rearranging. After a few minutes of silent protest, his posture softened as he reluctantly joined in the cleaning spree–taking to the kitchen sink to tackle unkempt dishes. 

For a moment, I felt a sense of normalcy. We were stitched and slinged, but synchronized in a common compartmentalized understanding to get our living space up to par before my parents arrived—before friends arrived. 

Compartmentalizing has always been my saving grace during times of stress. An unrealistic escape from the waves of life as a method of function–a method of numbness. To clean was to avoid feeling, to clean was to avoid view of my bloodied, swollen altered upper body in the bathroom mirror. To clean was to present a doctored reality of safety to visiting friends and family, holding concern. 

I needed this false reality. 

“I should probably send an update to our friends and family”, I self-stated, as I walked over to pick up my phone revealing over 30 missed calls, a filled voicemail box and over 100 unanswered text messages.

The overwhelming responsibility to answer, to provide comfort, and to ease their fear was felt at the core of my being.

“I’m…not…feeling well”, I say to my partner. 

“Why don’t you lie down for a bit, I can take it from here”, he offers over the clink and clash of washing dishes. 

“I’m going to take a shower”, I abruptly state as I walked toward the bathroom door. 

I could hear an audible drop of a dish splash in the water of the kitchen sink, as I began my solo attempt to take on the risk of undressing alone–in the name of cleanliness. 

With unrealistic determination, in child-like form—I began to lower my chin toward my collarbone, while simultaneously pulling up the collar of my shirt over my head with my right hand, through heavy breath. A handicapped attempt to prepare my body for water.  

I felt his hand reluctantly pull the back of my shirt back down.

“Let. me. help. you.”, he said with sternness. 

I knew he was right. My self-impatience was wearing on him. Much of the ebb and flow of the morning tied to my personal need for cleanliness. My need for mental escapism. My need for hyper-sensory reduction–a silent battle I was yet unable to articulate through words, but demonstrated through the morning’s erratic movement and quick-shift decisions. 

I just needed to feel safe. 

Photo re-enactment: “I raised my hands slowly to the front facing warm stream of water, as a gentle offering to call-in my long-awaited peace.”

We slowly worked together in a dance of gently lassoing the openings of my shirt over each upper limb of my body. 

Widely pulling the right-side fabric of my t-shirt out–freeing my right arm; while holding stiff to the left fabric of the t-shirt, above my left shoulder to avoid added pressure. Painfully lowering my chin toward my collarbone–curling my back downward to release my head from the top shirt opening, providing an easy path to shift–and drop my bloodied shirt over my left shoulder, to the floor. 

I stepped to the shower edge with urgency–turning the shower head to maximum heat wattage. A familiar ritual of my shower routine. 

I entered first with my left foot, followed by my right–directly touching the edge of the shower’s water stream with my toes. The dampness felt refreshing against the backbone of my bare feet. A warm pool of familiar comfort began to ease my mind of confusion, as dry patches of blood released their attachment from my skin dissolving into red droplets of blood washed from my arms to the shower floor. 

I raised my hands slowly to the front-facing warm stream of water, as a gentle offering to call in my long-awaited peace. A baptizing gesture of accepting innocence lost, replaced by the fire of disarray.

Flickers of light cast into the shadows of the bathroom from the single-hung window–capturing columns of light on the edges of the dual circular shower liner, marking the perimeter of the claw foot tub. 

A gust. 

In discomforting form, the contained wetness of the shower curtain swayed toward my body, triggering my reflex to avoid the sticky sensation of the wet shower liner. My left shoulder lunged under the hot stream of the shower head, exposed to the pressure of a thousand droplet needles, upon the rawness of my open gun wound. 

“Aaaoooooohhhh!” I shrilled in pain through the echoes of the bathroom walls.

A sharp, electric waterfall of chilling agony was immediately felt throughout my entire body–causing the immediate loss of balance and disorienting light-headedness as I reached for the humidity ridden bathroom wall. 

“Jas-mine!”, my partner yelled in his awareness of my stumble. 

My body felt cold as I stepped out of the shower–defeated by the disappointment of false relief. 

I was exhausted by my body’s cry for rest. Exhausted by my unknown preparators. Exhausted by my partner’s need for reassurance in the midst of my pain. Exhausted by the labor of asking for my body’s required support in its handicap. 

Photo re-enactment: “Walking over to the couch to rest with a clean set of clothing provided satisfactory comfort. A furry body pillow to prop up my left shoulder. Ergonomic head pillow. Blanket. Window view. Another round of medication.”

I was exhausted. 

“I think I should lay down”, I whisper. 

“I think that’s a good idea”, he agrees with a smile. 

Walking over to the couch to rest with a clean set of clothing provided satisfactory comfort. A furry body pillow to prop up my left shoulder. Ergonomic head pillow. Blanket. Window view.

Another round of medication. 

“A few friends are starting a meal train for us, and some people want to stop by in a few hours to visit–cool?”, he shares as he walks over to the desk, pulling out markers and paper. 

“That’s so nice…of course”, I respond as I drift off into the sleepy cocktail of medication.

My parents were making their way up the road, scheduled to arrive by nightfall, and visiting friends from the night prior would be arriving in a few hours. 

For the moment. I could rest.