I call this one Whoring for Lifetimes.
I’ve told you parts of the story, but not all of it.
All of it is that I broke my wrist. Drunk. In my bathing suit on a bicycle and 300ml of potato vodka from Pennsylvania. My heart still broken from Rapid City, South Dakota. With another heartbreak by my side, and then behind me as I barreled down an asphalt hill as though it was the fucking Tour de France.
All of it is that I was in my hometown. And that the first surgery was 4 days before my yoga teacher training. And I stood up and picked up the bicycle as though it were nothing and denied that it was broken. My dear friend and cyclical heartbreak didn’t believe me, and he as drunk as me scooped me up and drove me to the ER.
Moments earlier he’d used a crayfish to pull a leech off of him and I’d laughed waist deep in the water I would have been terrified of given those two creatures had I not been drunk. Moments earlier I climbed the waterfall, which had I fallen from I could have broken more than my wrist and drowned to boot. But moments earlier my hometown heartbreak was there to climb behind me, carefully positioning himself so that if that happened he would break that fall, and moments later I was angry at him for doing so and that’s what made me pedal so hard and so fast away from him.
Until the slap on the wrist.
You’d think I’d learn.
What’s also true is that the bicycle was faulty. It pulled to the right. It was nicknamed the “Bike of Misfortune” because the two people earlier who rode it ….. died. Later my meticulous heartbreak broke it down into its smallest of parts and took it to the dump and scattered it. I question the validity of that choice. Spreading the misery out?
At the hospital, I fell in love with Versed. I’ve always thought benzos are nice, like, once – each of them. They’re a lovely experience the first time and worthless the second on. Not Versed. They save the good stuff for the hospitals. Or maybe it’s just that it was my first IV drug. Maybe you always fall in love with the first.
Before they put the IV in me I am adamant that they must inform me with the generic and brand name of the drug they are using and the dosage, and that they must write it down for me. I tell them I know I already signed the fucking paper but if they drug me without my consent I’ll come to their house and kill them. They alert me that they will be giving me 2mg of Midazolam.
“You should not give me that I have been drinking, you shouldn’t be mixing benzodiazepines with alcohol.”
“It’s okay. We can bring you back to life.” she says, smirking.
I’m still in my bathing suit. It took them an hour to bring me a blanket. I was shivering, alone in the ER, waiting for them to finish chatting to come give me drugs and set my arm, while my friendly heartbreak waited alone outside in the waiting room. All of this for no reason other than carelessness. I do not trust that they have more knowledge than I do. I have read the same textbooks.
None of them told me about Versed.
Its sole function is to make the patient easier for the practitioner to deal with. They pass that off under the guise of making it easier for the patient. There are many names and descriptions “something to help with the anxiety”, “Twilight dentistry”. Those videos of teenagers coming out of dental surgery in inhibitionless hallucinations? Yes, it can be ketamine, or even fentanyl, but midazolam is the most commonly administered pre-surgical drug in America.
My husband’s cousin who has had cancer twice hates it. The effects he describes are completely different from how I feel, which is manic, inhibitionless, meticulous, and all-powerful. That is exactly the way I want to feel in a hospital, so it works out.
I find it intensely disturbing that patients are routinely drugged for docility and anxiety and compliance, and that hospitals have the right to administer within themselves a drug that inhibits new memories from forming, however, considering I can remember every piece of the drug experience, in retrospect as well as at the time under the influence of Versed I find it all very amusing.
“Holy shit this stuff is amazing. Hey they say up to two thirds of medical staff in any hospital are functional pharmaceutical addicts. Usually opioids. There’s two of you. Odds are high. Either of you? Any of you? Crickets. Must be both of you then.”
The medical staff gratefully found me entertaining, and reset my wrist.
I tell them meanwhile that they have a job to do here representing and caretaking people’s health, and modeling healthy behaviors is a part of that, and that there are ways I see that the environment and their behavior could stand to improve.
“You’re pregnant so you’re cool, but you. You. Look lady, you’re just obese. I have been there, believe me. You have to put down the fork or we gonna switch places and you’ll be in this fucking building your entire life. You are out of hand, woman. You’re like 350 pounds. You know what that does to your organs. Don’t look at me like that. You gave me this drug. I swallowed it, swallow my fucking truth. Not that you need to swallow anything extra.”
The pregnant woman I see again, she is a nurse that works for my surgeon’s office. For every appointment I am seen by two pregnant women.
Less than a week later I’m hopped up on Versed again for the first surgery to add a plate and some pins, all of which will be removed. I’ve interviewed 3 surgeons and chosen one intense, driven, 9 months pregnant, who comes out of the OR with blood on her hands to ecstatically tell my partner about her meticulous, OCD work rebuilding my wrist from fragments. Three months later I’m back in handstands.
They send me home with a bottle of Percocet. I do a cold water extraction and sell it and ask for more. They send me home with another bottle. I do another cold water extraction and sell half of it and take the other half with various THC containing products during my yoga teacher training.
My training is a wacky, strange, magical summer camp of a thing that could only take place in my hometown. There is a lot of asana. I don’t do any of it. It is 14 straight 14 hour days. I do a lot of breathing. Much mantra. So many instructions learned and given.
With all that I hear bells and the yogis tell me that I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
And the power of yoga is deepened in me.
And now, I have another certificate.
Weeks after I run out of Percocet which I never needed or wanted because I didn’t feel any true pain around the fracture at all. Discomfort, yes, but no pain. I am told by every medical professional and other person with a distal radius fracture that I must be lying. And here is one of many places I learn that I am not wired like others. Pain is fine. It’s nausea I avoid. After all, in the words of my friend’s grandmother:
“Beauty is pain.”
I visit a traditional Chinese acupuncturist with a thick Mandarin accent. She’s great.
“In China, people break bone, they get surgery, then they get acupuncture.” she says, putting tiny needles into my wrist. “In China: People smart.”
This experience and the following surgery three months later to remove the plate and screws from my bones are mostly drug experiences for me, as drugs are what dominate every part of the medical experience. There is no prep, no surgery, and no recovery without drugs. I am shocked at the dosages, they are well above what is comfortable for me. (Except Versed. Gimme.) The second surgery I beg the anesthesiologist to give me no morphine. I feel no pain anyway, and it makes me nauseous. On the way home from the first surgery I had to pull over to vomit.
When I awake and feel the sear of the cauterization on my arm I shed a tear of gratitude for the anesthesiologist. The RN then tries to immediately get me to take Percocet, which I refuse, but I am feeble and have just come out from under general.
“Can I just have half then?” I ask, confused.
“They only come in one size.” She says, and shoves the pill in my mouth. I bite it in half and spit the other into her face.
“Probably would have been easier to cut the damn thing in half.” I say, chewing the other half. That’s the last Percocet I swallow for at least seven years, maybe the rest of my life, but I never say never.
Weeks later I am sitting in the mall trying to pretend it’s a mall anywhere else but my hometown I hear a recording of my other yoga teacher and dear friend’s reading with a psychic. I am skeptical until this moment. I know him well. She does not. Fifteen minutes into it and I’m sobbing like a baby at her deep knowing of my friend’s inner life and I’m storming out of the mall. The reading convinces me, and I shell out $120 for mine.
The psychic tells me she has only ever seen one other who loves being here on this plane so much that they jump back into a body the moment that they can, sometimes even less than a century later.
And then she tells me I have been a whore for lifetimes.
“Well duh who doesn’t love fucking so much they want to be here over and over?” I think to myself. Unfortunately, she actually is psychic. She pauses.
“No, you don’t understand. You have had to have sex with many men you did not want to.” she says.
“And many I have” I cannot help but think. She doesn’t respond verbally, but, hey, guess what: I’m psychic too. I hear her say.
She tells me that my last lifetime was mostly spent in a brothel in Tombstone, Arizona, and that I was trying to make it to California when I got stranded there, so it’s a good thing I made it there in this lifetime. She has no way of knowing that I lived in California for 15 years.
And then she tells me of other lifetimes, and struggles between myself and my mother throughout every one. To heal from this her guides are telling her that she cannot recommend her usual soup of things, because I just won’t do it and don’t have time for it, and basically has to recommend just one.
“The only thing that will work on you is the stuff that works on warriors. Soldiers. Veterans. You will likely teach others after you learn.”
He pulls enormous whipworms of energy out of my nervous system through Tension Releasing Exercises. The moment I feel the neurogenic tremor response for the first time I am transformed. I did not know that it existed or where the switch was. Once shown, I never need showing again…
“You are VERY responsive” he affirms.
He uses other modalities. Kundalini yoga, chanting, mantra, sound, chest compression.
You’ve not lived until you’ve had a 250lb Navy Seal that plays bad guys on TV compress your chest and then chant into it while you’re in full body tremor.
I now practice it on the regular and have integrated it into my yoga practice. He told me specifically not to teach it, so I teach it to everyone I can.
Now I have told you the story of whoring for lifetimes. I want your body, your mind, your breath. I want to fuck exactly you. For as long as I possibly can. Thrice. And again. And again. And again. And again. And Again. More. Want. You. Now. Always.
And so you see, the moral of this story is:
fucking you is what I came back here for this time.
For more about my Favorite Lover:
How we met: The European Lovers: Hookup
The first time: The European Lovers: Barcelona
Favorite Lover as Muse:
The first of our cybersex duet series: Halloween Lover