Monday, February 3, 2014

Tic Douloureux

The electric kettle is going, and even my cat looks tired.
"Get the water as hot as you can," my dad said.
Soaking a washcloth in hot water and draping it across your face is one of my father's remedies for congestion.
He was a Special Forces medic in Vietnam, so that fact, coupled with my unyielding admiration for him as a human being, makes his medical advice hold more weight in my book, even if it's simple or folksy.
I'm breathing clearly now, thanks to the Sudafed, the kind you have to show your drivers license to obtain, the good stuff; but the pain in the left side of my face is drumming, constant, and overpowering my fatigue, that for once is coming at the right time.
I massage my face, I drape the towel, I ice it, nothing works.
I'm watching a show on Netflix, "House of Cards."
I read a tweet from a stripper in Philly that it'll really get you in your money-making, take-no-prisoners zone.
I still can't figure out how this show could be advantageous for me at work.
I need to watch "Wolf of Wall Street" again, be reminded of how to be a ruthless salesperson.
I don't know if I'm burning out, not adjusting well to the new club, or simply not handling the fact that I just went through January, the hardest month of the year for sales.
I'm in a slump. This has been a brutally cold, snow-filled month.
I want out. I want out of dancing, and out of this state.
My face hurts so much, it's distracting. When the pain goes into my teeth, it reminds me, terrifies me. It reminds me of when I had trigeminal neuralgia, a rare nerve disorder that I learned from Wikipedia is nicknamed "the suicide disease" because it's so excruciating lots of people kill themselves before they find relief. It went undiagnosed for months and months, getting worse and worse. That time in my life, screaming on my studio apartment floor downtown, screaming until I passed out, fantasizing about knocking my teeth out with a hammer because maybe that would fix it, made me realize I could definitely deliver a child without drugs. Famous last words, right? But no for real, that shit fucking sucked. The neurologist who finally figured out my problem gave me Dilaudid and Klonopin. I knew Dilaudid was serious shit, because that's what was being administered to my brother through a drip when he was dying of cancer. The Klonopin was so I didn't have seizures.
That was a messy time, a blurry time.
I think the most often times one has conversations they remember, or conversations that lead to kisses they don't forget, is on the floor.
I've lived through a lot of things. Much more than I will list here.
My cat Amadeus is sleeping next to my leg while my "Cold Season" Yogi brand tea cools in the other room. He was sleeping on my belly earlier. I'm convinced he knows I don't feel well.
Amadeus is a big cat, and he whines all the time, because he used to have a backyard with woods to run and play and hunt in. Now he's just stuck in this apartment, and can't go outside. I wish he knew how much I empathize with his plight.
I have wanderlust as well.
I hope to return to being an ESL teacher in another country this fall, but this time I'll bring one pair of stripper shoes with me, because I didn't last time, and I missed it.
Dancing, the lifestyle, the money, the women, the stories, the friendships, the betrayals, everything I've learned, it's all with me and it will stay with me always.

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