“Chest Tight”
Jul 01, 2019Chest tight. Probably having a heart attack. Probably going to die. Again. This happens every time. I think I’m dying. And then I don’t die. But then I think the next one will be the last. Eventually I’ll win. I’ll die and then I can tell everyone, see, I told you I was gonna die like this.
I’m wearing my mask. Calm down, dear reader, I’m no superhero. It’s a CPAP mask. I wear it for her, so she can sleep, because I snore like Thor’s thundering hammer rattling a bear in its cave. With or without the mask, I suffer. So I might as well suffer while she doesn’t. I already feel guilty enough that she decided to be in a relationship with me. I don’t need to feel guilty about not letting her sleep. The mask sucks. It’s supposed to make all of this better, but it never feels like it’s actually working. How am I supposed to know if it’s working? Am I supposed to feel better right away? And if I don’t feel better do I just keep wearing the thing even though she wants to kiss me? How the hell am I supposed to know?
Chest tight. I take the fucking mask off. She’s been asleep in my arms for an hour. My slow Vader-esque breathing put her to sleep. But it didn’t put me to sleep. And I’m still wide awake, wondering if I’ll ever be able to sleep properly again, wondering if my chest will ever finally burst, so the monster inside can finally run around and live the life it wants to live.
I move her arms off my body and she shifts, grumbling, farting, maintaining the same level of sleep. I unplug the machine; I don’t want her to wake up from the loud blast of air. I take the mask off and put it on the chair. I go to the couch—the couch is where I have always gone when I feel off. I sit there, breathing deeply, wondering if I’m dying. I’m probably not dying, but how do I know I’m not? How do I know what dying feels like if I’ve never felt it before? What if this is what dying feels like? What if this feels worse than dying? How could I resist the temptation if the actual act is easier than this?
I move from the couch to the floor. It’s cold on the floor. I need to stretch. I can’t even do that. It’s the thing that would make me feel better, but I can’t fucking do it. I lower my head and that’s as far as I can go without feeling like I’m going to rip the sheet of back muscles into a thousand pieces. And then I’ll regret ever trying to become healthier because it’s the thing that fucking destroyed me.
Is my tight chest just my tight back muscles holding on for their own dear lives? Are they just screaming out in pain, don’t tear us apart, we want to be together forever? Are they holding onto my chest and stretching my chest apart in order to save themselves? I wouldn’t put it past them. They’re my muscles after all. But goddamn it, I don’t want them to make me feel like I’m dying for their own benefit!