These Demons

Chapter Fifty-three

***Did y'all watch the APMAS? I did, but only because of Andy and The Pretty Reckless and I'm so glad both won an award, but other than that, I considered the whole thing rather disappointing***

After reading the article, I insist on getting my phone because this time, I need to know what people are saying, but no matter how much I piss off the others, pick fights and yell at them, they refuse to get them from my personal items for me and so does the staff.

When a different doctor shows up because mine has already finished her shift, everyone has to leave the room, so they all decide to go to a restaurant with the rest of the crew. I'm not allowed to leave this hospital as long as my condition is so 'critical' and our home on the west coast is at the other end of the country, so everyone is stuck here with me because they believe I can't be left alone.
I call it bullshit and feel both guilty and annoyed, but it's indisputable that I am also glad not to be all alone with my dark thoughts because when visiting hours end and everyone has left, those weigh me down heavily.

Additionally to the intense physical pain and exhaustion, I feel nauseous from way too many feelings spinning me around like a carousel.
There's guilt because of what I'm doing to those I love, anger because I'm a grown man who isn't allowed to make any decisions for himself, annoyance because of all the drama that's being caused because of me, self-hatred because I let this happen and worst of all: Such a strong sense of paralyzing fear that it shakes me to my very core.
It's like my anxiety has divided itself into different layers, each worse than the last: The outer one only consists of my phobia of the weight gain I'm awaiting because of this tube I can't control, but below that, there's so much more.
I'm horrified of losing this sense of control this gave me over my life, this sense of comfort and safety, no matter how sick and destructive that might seem.
I had something I knew I was good at, something I had to myself and could make me better than anyone else.
All those self-doubts and the self-hatred I constantly felt could be compensated with the counting of calories and the endless workouts, and what do I have without those things?
How am I supposed to cope? I don't have anything else.
Music can't fulfill me anymore. It just makes it even clearer that I'm not good enough.
That there's something missing, something imperfect.
The rush of adrenaline after twenty-four hours of fasting, the endorphins that tingle in my entire body when the number on the scale has dropped.

What else is there? What else am I? This has taken over my identity and I'm clueless without it.
I can't stop. I won't stop.

The very moment I consider ripping out the tube regardless of what it might or might not do to my esophagus, a nurse bursts in to check my vital signs again, so I dismiss the plan for the night and pretend to be sleeping until I actually manage to drift away and have more nightmares about food.

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Before my tour family shows up on the doorstep, I have a discussion with a nurse about breakfast because I still refuse to eat anything as long as they refuse to take out the tube, but despite my lack of compromise, I somehow convince her to get me my phone, but the triumph fades quickly when I realize the internet connection here is a joke and I can therefore not read anything online except my business emails I couldn't care less about.
Sure, I can receive my Whatsapp messages and could respond to those, but I really don't want to.

I want to check social media and the news sites, but I can't.
Close to turning the stupid thing off because of my frustration, I angrily scroll through my messages, but one catches my eye and makes the carousel start all over again.

I wish I didn't care, but I still do.
Does she too? She only sent two words: call me.
Why only two words? Why didn't she write more? And why does she want me to call her anyway?
What is there to talk about? Why now? Why all of a sudden?
I start making up theories about whether she is worried, wants to tell me I'm crazy or just heard what happened and wants the interesting details, but I won't know anything unless I actually do call her.
Why won't she do it herself, though? Why me?

I hate what she does to me. Two words and I'm all over the place.
Two words on a phone even!
This is beyond ridiculous. It shouldn't matter at all. We didn't even date.
We fucked once and haven't seen each other in weeks or at least wished each other a happy Christmas or new year.
None of this should matter to me.
I should be numb to it the way I'm numb to everything else.
All of this has created a distance between everything around me so nothing and nobody can reach me anymore, and yet I can't escape from certain emotions that continue to haunt me like a curse.

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Box Car Racer - There Is