Tentative first go

 

 

           

            Ink black bubble gum chalk ­— that’s about the size of it.

            It was never really the taste that bothered me; the really gnarly shit as far as flavoring goes was the electrolyte brew. Usually they just hang that shit in a banana bag and you just have to let yourself be shuffled by a pair of orderlies to take a leak every forty-five min or so unless you’ve got a Foley, but you’ve gotta be pretty fucked up for that. When I’ve had a Foley I’ve just been grateful I don’t have a dick. That shit must hurt. Back to the electrolytes though, cause if you’re like halfway between fucked up and Foley-fucked you’re going to remember having to throw down this lurid orange shit that looks like Gatorade if Gatorade could go bad and tastes what I imagine week-old dog piss must taste like. It’s unpleasant.

            I’ve found there are two types of orderlies as well, as long as we’re on that topic. Most of the ones I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know have this attitude of official ­— it must be listed on their fuckin job description or something to be able to affect that bullshittily stern but caring composure at a moment’s notice several times an hour. Seriously they must fuckin practice in the mirror on their piss breaks or something. Sanctimonious — that’s what I was looking for, some fuckin shit like “While I must officially look askance at your antisocial behavior young lady, I am duty-bound to do all I can to ensure your productive return to society.” God I fuckin hate those pricks, but what’s worse actually are the caring old-lady types, the ones that give you the puppy dog eyes that scream “I care so much about you little one, I just hope you get better” while you know the whole time they’re thinking “thank Jesus this little bitch isn’t my daughter.” Maybe some of them actually do give a shit, but it’s just annoying, like really fucking annoying. I don’t feel sorry for myself. Don’t really need you to for me. Of course, every now and then you get a good bull dyke who just doesn’t tolerate shit and tells you so in as few words as possible; those are the good ones. So I guess that makes three kinds, but the third is rare.

            No the thing about the charcoal is that it turns your shit black for a week. Let me repeat that: it turns your shit black. I don’t mean dark brown; we’re talking Satan’s twat black. It’s terrifying. The only thing I can compare it to is having your first period because even when you know all the perfectly rational and biological reasons why there is suddenly blood seeping from you, you still get that holy fuck I’m dying feeling pull you under until your sister or best friend or mom or teacher can calm you down and help you get cleaned up and get you to breathe again. There’s no such bank of womanly wisdom available with the black shits, just you hunched over eyes closed and this hideous reminder of what you really don’t need reminding of right now or ever: something dark and unnatural is churning inside you and no one can hear it but you.

            So now I’m shitting ink and there’s not much to do about it. I actually had the balls to bring it up to a therapist once a couple years ago. I liked this guy too — we almost made it to the magical therapy happyland of mutual trust. He was too typically a therapist — the whole very out of shape balding bearded gay (I mean like really gay, absolute sweetheart and that’s not a word often in my active vocabulary) white guy with glasses and a sweater vest. We’d been talking about the shit from back then and I just sort of blurted it out (not fucking around — it seriously scares the shit out of me …o. haha). I kind of just assumed it would be the typical bullshit like “Well, Jaye, have you ever considered the possibility that perhaps your fear of this… ahem… after-effect might just be due to its proximate relationship to your recent traumatic experience?” or something like that but instead just kind of looked at me, not even with the therapist “I could say something and I already know what you’re going to say but I’m just going to let you say it” look but just like… looked. Not gonna lie, it was all sorts of awkward, but he finally just asked me if I’d tried not to think about it. At first I was kind of pissed off like what do you mean just don’t think about it, like if it was that easy I wouldn’t fucking be here, but I thought about it. Maybe I’ll try it this time. Or maybe not. The dark’s leaking out of me.

            The asshole killed himself three months later.

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~ by Benji on December 27, 2012.

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