Had this really awesome blog started on my now infamous Ketamine infusions (it’s really only famous with a small group of my closest, most intimate friends. But after this next blog or so? Shit’s gonna really blow up, watch). Anyway–quick re-cap: I shot up (the doc shot me up, not myself) 6, sublimely fiendish, hallucinogenic trip inducing, brain plasticity expanding, emotional regulatory healing, ketamine syringes that stopped my obsessive suicidal rumination after infusion number 2. A miracle. But somehow managed to exasperate my ‘horny as fuck’ hyper-sexuality, so I was up against double the amount of plugged in (not battery operated) vibrations. Which is fine, by the way, great in fact.
Ketamine. Who knew? It works. Miraculous stuff.
So, 6, SIX infusions spread out over two weeks–all in a last ditch effort to save myself from myself. And it did.
I got through the first paragraph of the new blog (and trust me, it’s a good one so far) and had to quit. Not quit Special K, just the topic. For now. I will assure you, when it does post (next, it posts next..second to next) shit will be the funniest damn, most informative blog you’ve ever read. Not really, but you’ll def get a bang outta it not to mention some first hand ‘K’ accounting. So stand by.
It was because of my heart. It stopped. No it didn’t, but it might as well of. My heart started to ache in such a suffocating, like so goddamn bad, so painful was my whole idiot heart, that taking a deep breath was completely counter-intuitive to feeling better.
…shit’s serious when a deep breath only makes things worse, n’ that never happens even in the ER.
I stopped writing about Ketamine cause my heart was bleeding out, all over the place, but inside me, A hemorrhage of sorts. I could totally tell too, no need for the barium enema ct scan in the emergency room to confirm it. Unless that’s your thing. Enema photo imagery. I actually know tons of people who go to the ER just so the frazzled graveyard shift can be first witness to an x-ray revealing a whole jar of organic peanut butter shoved up an asshole.
No I don’t. I know no one who would shove an entire jar of peanut butter up their ass, just a lamp post minus the shade.
Anyway, back to me. So, I was feeling all light-headed N’ vomitous due to crushing chest pain, n’ like, was moving fast down that weird “shit I’m deaf” narrow hallway inside the mind–the one that happens right before you keel over? You know, the typical but terrifying vasovagal response? Paramedics frequently use that term, it’s official sounding. Fainting, it means fainting. I got a vasovagal due to my overwhelming heartbreak, a heartbreak I still haven’t explored the genesis of yet, but was strong enough to cause a swoon, forehead first n’ face down upon my dirty keyboard.
It’s really a wake up call when your heartbreak hurts so goddamn bad it causes you to just up and pass out. I didn’t fully pass out, but almost.
You never wanna fully pass out from an emotional trauma, trust me, you might end up crushing an overpriced wooden pottery barn kiddie chair, hitting your head causing a mild concussion, then waking up 10 seconds later to the invigorating sound of a million fizzy bubbles bursting in your ear cause a can of coke is spilling all around n’ inside your newly blown out hair. So don’t do that, it sucks.
Chest pain, the non myocardial infarction kind, no matter what’s causing it, is a tell tale sign your heart has sprung a leak and your gonna die from blood loss even know you never lose a drop. Understand? It’s symbolic but it’s also real, you can die from a broken heart, it’s in the medical journals, it’s a real thing, so buyer beware.
I could not only feel it, but hear it– the sound of blood passing through one membrane only to fill up the next, till the entirety of my inerds were re-marinated in my own emotionally poisoned blood supply. Yuck.
So, in that instance, I Just couldn’t type another word. Not a word. I had semi fainted on my keyboard, mid ketamine blog, only to come back around to the fear of metaphoric blood getting everywhere. Crazy. This blood, my emotionally disgruntled blood, ( I love blood by the way) would just sprout out of me as if I were an over-filled water balloon punched with a million micro-needle-pin-point holes. A bloody balloon.
N’ you know what I’d be then? Do you? I’d be A-Red-n’-Ready To Grow Chia Pet Plant Person. There is no such thing, of course not, how fuckin’ stupid, but I’d be a blood soaked plant person. I just made that up, A chia plant person soaked in blood yet full of holes for seeds to sprout. How inert is that idea? But wouldn’t it be a great white elephant gift? Like at the Christmas office party? That thing would probably go off.
And there you go, Ketamine blog on hold, and this one dead on arrival.
I know you wanna know what caused the heart pain, and I’ll tell you what I do know: it’s from un-felt feelings. That’s it. But not just any feelings, that would be ridiculous. I’m talking about not confronting the big guns, the Nazi regime, the full over-stuffed enchilada. Unexpressed, unfelt, and unacceptable feelings of love and heartbreak. The feeling you are living a life of complete and utter unrequited love, yet no one’s actively rejecting you. It’s just always there, gnawing, aching, stabbing, sequestering, crushing.
So I typed this instead.
I end with the best advice I’ve gotten in two years, got it texted to me last night from my very perceptive muse actually, you know, Lisa, I’ve told you a little about her.
Lisa, she’s just simply the best, you know? She really is. N’ how lucky am I to have someone to share this ride with, you know? Who really gets it, the whole ugly mess of it–juuuusssttt fuckin’ gets it, no explaining, no nothin.
She’s the fuckin’ bees knees is what she is. And smart and beautiful, and funny, and In fact, I love and admire her so much I wanna eat her whole face off. That’s actually cause she’s way prettier than me, n’ I’m the poor mans Lisa even though I’m quite thankful in the looks department, but still wanna eat her head off.
Anyway, when I told her my emotional pain was so profound from not dealing with it, like super traumatizing emotions n’ stuff, she offered up the wisest piece of advice ever: “you gotta go deeeeeeep Kelly, into deeeeep denial. Keep those feelings waaaaay buried, that’s what I do n’ that’s called nailin’ it.”
Gold, fucking self-help gold. It is, and she was right–I wasn’t able to process the level of pain I was confronted with, so instead of having it almost cause my heart to implode, it would of been a much a better choice to choose to not let it ravage me when I wasn’t high, I mean, prepared enough. Get it? Finally, advice that actually makes some fuckin’ sense.