the human animal

I've had a very stressful week at work, some of which is due to PMS. My body responds to stress by shutting down for several hours. I got home around 6 and was looking forward to a no-stress evening at home, possibly including a movie and some microwave popcorn.

I took off my sweater and must have laid down for what I thought would be a short nap; I woke much later on the floor of my bedroom. I believed I was in the middle of a nightmare in which I needed to peel off layers of skin in order to stop the pain. It wasn't a dream, exactly.

I pull at my clothes for several minutes, finally removing everything except my bra. I ask what more is expected of me. I'm cold now! I can taste salt and blood! I had peeled off all the layers, and I still hurt. It wasn't fair. At that point, the pain comes into focus and some corner of my brain recognizes the specific pain as being contact lenses that should have come out hours ago.

I call out, but I remember that I am alone in the house; even as I struggle to make words instead of sounds, I realize that it won't matter: there is no help. I don't have time to cry: I remove my contact lenses, but I will need my hands to get me out of the bedroom since my legs are essentially useless. The lenses go onto my tongue, and I fumble around in my backpack for one of those gel packets that runners carry. My blood glucose level is somewhere around 30 mg/dL; normal is around 100.

So, I pull myself into the bathroom. On the way there, I realize my nose is bleeding; otherwise, the trip down the hall is uneventful. I drop the gel packet in order to pull myself up to the sink and grab a case for my lenses and what I hope is a bottle of disinfecting solution.

You never realize how gritty a bathroom floor can get until you have to pull yourself across it; it only *looks* clean.

By now, the lenses are safely in their chemicals and I'm feeling around on the floor in the dark for the gel, which I hope will be enough to get me downstairs, to the kitchen, where there's substantial food.

The gel, called GU, works pretty fast. I can stand up, though not very steadily. Even holding tight to the railing, I still come close to falling on the first step. On the way down I remember that dinner is, or was, sitting in the kitchen in a bag, and that I was going to watch a movie.

I have no clue as to the time; the house is empty, dark and quiet. Lola makes her "where have you been?" sound as I reach the bottom of the stairs. I say "Hi Baby," and continue my stumble into the kitchen, where I snarf down about half a cup of raisins before going for my dinner.

As I am eating I realize that before I started down the stairs, I went into a seldom-used closet and found a flannel shirt that comes to my knees. I also notice the time: 1:30 a.m.

After my body's need for glucose is met, I go back upstairs, carrying the cat; when I put her on the bed I see that the peeling also included throwing my covers across the room, and that my comforter is spattered with blood in one corner.

It looks like a crime scene, although I know exactly what happened here.

I go to take a hot shower. The fragrant bath gel, which smells of spices and chocolate, does wonders for getting the smell of blood out of my nose.

As I get out, I look at my face in the slightly foggy mirror. I remember a friend in high-school telling me that you could always tell if a girl was really pretty by how she looked when she got out of the shower, with wet hair and no makeup.

Me, I just look scared.

before - after