“WE’VE GOT A BLEEDER!!!”
DOCTOR: ” We need a tourniquet, and 10 units of epi… Stat!”
NURSE: “Doctor, it’s a chest wound, I don’t even know where to place the tourniquet.”
DOCTOR: ” Jesus Christ we’re going to have to cut this poor fucker open. Just how in the fuck did this happen?”
VICTIM (voice weak and trembling): Doc she didn’t realize the gun she was holding was loaded. She pulled the trigger and thought nothing would happen. It’s not her fault, I put the bullets in it. She…… she didn’t mean it DOC!”
I’ve watched way too many Hospital centered dramas. I don’t even know what Epi is . But I know they always need it in the trauma center. ER, Grey’s Anatomy, hell even started with M*A*S*H as a kid. Hawkeye and Honeycutt, Sloan and Grey, I vividly recall losing Anthony Edwards to a brain tumor. It was heart-wrenching.
I’ve watched them all go away, get written off.
Recalling Grey’s Anatomy, I always immediately go to the terminology of “my person”. No matter how fucked-up we are, we always have “MY PERSON”.
Me, I have people. Wonderful fantastic people that I love. But do I take the time to truly cultivate those relationships? No. I stand back, metaphorically waiting for them to drop the other shoe, all the while passing them a cocked and loaded gun. Yup, I pass them the weapon, waiting for the kill shot.
That means what it sounds like…. I somehow sabotage every relationship. It is subtle and subconscious. I quit trusting as a child.
I kept one hanger-oner for a long time.
Tom. I met him in grade school. He’s the first person I got in trouble with. He knew everything about me. With the exception of some of the darker things that I’ve told nobody.
He has tolerated alot… year long drop outs,
Drug addiction, lies, shady stories, ya… he more than proved himself. But I run.
A friend of mine, who I consider my blog mentor, told me today that I need to decide who I am writing to when I do my blogs. Otherwise they become self-indulgent and disgusting. Paraphrasing of course. Ironically she has witnessed, first-hand, my dropouts, my disappearing act. She still stands by. For the purpose of well, life in general, we’re going to consider her to be just as mentally unstable as I am, perhaps.
Well I pretty much write these for myself. A self-reflection, if you will, a mirror to put in front of myself. Or maybe… maybe.. something that I have to look at so that my thoughts are not just passing. That I can learn from myself.
I’ve currently put my family on hiatus. Very fucked up of me. I keep trying to remind myself of how I’m going to regret this one day. And I know I will. But that my friends is another story.
So back to the beginning. My life is an emergency room triage unit. For the longest time I sufficed with bandages. But over the years I ensured that the scars went deeper. That it was not just a surface wound. Maybe I figured that the deeper more severe more painful and traumatic wounds would serve as a better reminder. Maybe I thought it would protect others from me.
I do know, perhaps better than others…. when you have a bleeder, you have to isolate the source. Cut it off if you will. I’ve cut it off so many times,
If I was hanging on a wall, I’d be called Art.
If I was laying in front of a door, you’d call me Matt.
If I were in a lake, Bob.
Cut it off… you eventually run out of Limbs.
I’m so good with a scalpel though.