Where Are We Now? (Marina)

Trentasei

Carina

It didn't matter how close I put the diffuser— or how many air fresheners I plugged into my bedroom outlets, I still couldn't escape the sensation that thick, cough inducing smoke was invading my nostrils every time I closed my eyes.

It was 1:00am and every time I closed my eyes I swore the smoke was starting to smother me, making it close to impossible to catch my breath, or inhale deep enough for it to not burn.

The smell would jolt me awake and cause my stomach to cramp in pain with every cough I made to try and clear my airway.

It was an endless cycle of me tossing and turning to find comfort in a bed I had ripped the sheets off to not feel like I was suffocating. Not that it was working.

The windows were open so I could hear the rain. The lights were on so I would see that I wasn't trapped in a dark room filled with smoke. Yet no matter how much air came in and how much I could see I was still back in that stupid hallway.

Three freaking years and the nightmares seemed determined to stick around and at this point felt like it was just my brain taunting me, forcing me to relive the feelings I felt so swallowed up in for those first days in hospital when only the morphine took my anxiety away.

That should have been my first hint of where I was headed. To rely on the morphine to let me sleep. To rely on a pill to be the only thing I look forward to after a day of fighting through pain and therapies that didn't feel like they were working.

Wyatt said my nightmares were associated to a pain my body was determined to remember and hold, and expecting to heal from it over night was like hoping for the sun to never set.

But it wasn't just that. My body was in disarray. It had been for days.

The hot flashes were at an all time high. Enough that all I wore to bed was a thin spaghetti strap and a thong because the idea of wearing anything more was causing me to profuse more than I was.

Never in my life had I sweat as much as I had the last 8 days. I couldn't tell if the night sweats were caused by the approach of the tragic anniversary, the hormones and trigger shot, or even the cravings that were heightened because of the lack of sleep and nightmare flare ups.

It almost reminded me of the ones I experienced during withdrawal. It was disgusting— I felt dirty. The ash in my dreams felt seared to my skin. As if it wasn't bad enough, I was having leg spasms in my sleep.

I knew it was my brain playing tricks on me, the stress of the week messing with my sensory neurons.

Deep down, I knew this. I could rationalize this. Pick it apart and understand the root cause of it. There was a trigger, and it would pass. It had to pass.

But the nightmares. I couldn't stop the freaking nightmares from sneaking into my subconscious. To stop the anxiety from making my skin from itch every time I was jolted awake.

The week had been an internal hell. I'd interrupted Dr. Wyatt three times this week because there was always one thing that set me off.

Whether it was Maya missing our appointment, a patient who decided that getting pregnant during the first few weeks of postpartum was cute, or my brother being annoying and asking me questions about Papa.

Everything annoyed me. Everything frustrated me.

Which after 10 days full of changes and fluctuations in my body, felt like the most minimal side effect. The ability to feel my ovaries weighing down more was not something I expected, though at least it meant there would be eggs to gather in the morning.