How To Get Present

Suddenly, like a freight train pulling into the station, wheels squealing, this immovable weight comes crashing down on her, enveloping her entire body. Her organs hurt. Or is it her back? She can't differentiate between the pounding in her head, ears, chest, legs and stomach. Dysrhythmic, cacophonous, consuming. There is no comfort here. She tries to roll over, coax her cells back into a restful sleep but something triggers the gag reflex in the back of her throat. This is not good, this can not be good. If she breathes, just tries to focus on deep, cleansing breaths-no, wait, bad idea. Through the slits of her barely open eyelids she reads 5 am on the clock radio. Must Keep Sleeping. She's a kid all over again, imagining that this is all a bad dream; when she wakes up it will all be sunshine and fairytales, rainbows and kittens, and back to her old, active, healthy, take charge self. It hurts to roll over. Struggling to throw off the quilt then the duvet and finally the top sheet, she gingerly swings both legs over the mattress, one by one, finds a shaky footing on the floor. This is why she never drank in high school, fear of feeling like this. How can people live like this?  As rapidly as her brain function allows, she's inventorying the last 5 days in her head: where she travelled, who she saw, what she ate, what she touched....Her brain shuts off, overridden by a sudden urge to hit the floor and curl up in a fetal position. Straddling the door frame she slides her aching, sweaty self into the bathroom, not sure whether to sit or kneel in front of the toilet. This is going to be a long day. Or days, if she's unlucky. Forced rest, she thinks. Immunity taking over. Finally, permission to give up and go with it. Talk about being in the moment.