Illness kept changing the rules of my life. Tea, whisky, and eventually cannabis became ways of finding something worth chasing anyway.
It’s 7:38 a.m., and it’s time for my medication. I grab my pill strip off my desk and pop the lid open. Gotta check that it’s all there; otherwise I’m screwed. The pills for my C-PTSD, anxiety, and depression are already in there, but there are always more. Something for breakthrough pain. Two more tablets for anxiety and depression. Something for allergies. A probiotic. Another antibiotic, this one a powder I have to mix with water.
I look down at the pill strip. The pills have piled into a neat little haystack of medicine. I dump them into my hand, throw them into my mouth, and wash them down with the antibiotic. That’s the first of three batches of meds done for the day. Time to get on with my life.
Learning to Taste
Some moments stick around longer than others. Looking back, mine tend to cluster around the same things: illness, flavor, and whatever my body would still let me have.
I am two years old, and I haven’t eaten solid food yet. Medical malformations in my body make it difficult to digest. According to my parents, I live on disgusting pre-digested formula mixed with water and fed to me from a bottle. I have almost no frame of reference for what food is supposed to taste like. By six, I know enough to hate hospital food. During one two-week stay, I live for the nights when a nurse brings me popsicles and ice cream from the freezer for the “very sick kids.” At the time, I think she’s sneaking them to me. It doesn’t dawn on me that I …
Read More
Author: Scott Spolverino / High Times
