I’m Scared That 20 Years Ago I Killed Myself [Medium]

Snowdon, the highest mountain in North Wales. Photo by v2osk on Unsplash

I don’t like to talk about my feelings

Someone asked me to talk about my feelings. In unrelated news do you know how to dispose of a body?

They asked me online how I felt that they’d been mean to me on social media — or something like that, anyway, it’s a long story and unimportant to this one.

They’d gone to great lengths to issue me a written apology and wanted a reply. How did it make you feel? That’s what they wanted to know.

I wanted to scream. That’s how it made me feel.

Not because of anything they’d done or said. But precisely because what they wanted to know was completely irrelevant.

To what I’m going through. To what I’m doing. To how I feel.

At the time I was getting ready to go to the hospital.

I had to have an emergency X-ray of my leg to check whether I’ve an infection in the bone.

I probably don’t — if I do then it’s life threatening — but either way something is wrong with my leg.

My leg has been infected and bleeding for several months and I finally decided that it was time to do something about it.

The need to do something about my leg had hung over me like a little cartoon raincloud that followed me around.

There’s a scar that I’ve had on my right leg for over 20 years. I’ve also got a dent in my leg, presumably where I chipped the bone, that the scar covers.

There’s a funny story behind how I got that scar and dented my leg — which I will tell you — but the point is it shouldn’t have started bleeding after all these years.

What’s more — the dent seems to have gotten bigger as I can now push my thumb into it.

So I need to get it checked out by the hospital to find out what’s going on.

I’ve never been more scared. Except perhaps for the last time that I was this scared. Or the time before that which was probably worse.

I’m trying to find out whether I’m going to die and someone that I’ve never met in real life wants to know how I feel about something that they said online.

I dashed off a reply. One that didn’t really answer the question. Then I went to the hospital, had my x-ray, and came back.

They wanted another reply. They still wanted to know how I feel.

And I replied again. This time I answered the question. But I still didn’t tell them what’s going on with me.

I didn’t tell them about my health problems. I didn’t tell them about the hospital. I didn’t tell them that I was scared or in pain.

There’s a metaphor for life in there somewhere.

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