the motions of survival

I remember all the times at Proctor 2 my nurses used to spend with me, trying to get me to eat something instead of waiting til my blood glucose dropped to coma levels and they had to administer glycogen. I didn't think that unless my body was blatantly in crisis that eating was even necessary. Alex would tell me the dangers; that if they ever needed to revive me they would end up crushing my body. He would urge me on with bites of an apple, with juice. Christina would make me hopeful English muffins with cereal pieces glued into a smiling face on top. Mini Gatorade bottles with "Drink Me" signs taped to it like I was Alice, forever trying to grow smaller when they wanted me taking up more space.
The days my vitals would drop too low to be allowed off the hall I would gaze through the heavy locked screens, my face squashed against them. I knew I was missing out on friends and the world and whatever it was my life was supposed to be. Swallowed tubes slid down my throat, the motions of survival. My life is still on hold in many ways, held up in hospital halls every couple months apart, no plans beyond that.

Its a scary thing, I think, to dream, when I wasn't allowed to for so long, when I hadn't seen myself as still alive here today. I'd like to see it as a vixtory that I have surpassed so many suicide attempts. but I have awoken in white sheets and acid in my throat as bitter as the disappointment I felt at still having breath. I have also had days when that was enough to hold onto. I don't know if recovery is for me, or what it is for me yet. When I will feel like a survivor of trauma and not a victim.  But I hope I can share my stories that are like secrets I sometimes keep silently.


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