SkyboundTerror Posted July 22, 2016 Share Posted July 22, 2016 I've been in a very shitty mood lately - so shitty that I've been waking up in the middle of the night, angry and pissed, with no choice but to slowly simmer down and crash an hour later. You know, that anger that slowly burns the back of your brain while a faint ringing in your ears eats away the silence? Yeah, that anger. The lack of a comfortable sleep, on top of loads of other problems with friends, demoralizes me and I've already given up on the day before it's started. My bed has become my best friend and my worst enemy during the rough ride of these previous months. So I figured a rant is due before I lash out at the wrong people. I'm lonely - I can't get a date; I'm unemployed, spend countless hours on the internet, and lost contact with best friends; I'm diving deeper into a part of me that I resent, and I'm sitting on old grudges that only serve to ruin my own mood. But that's the norm in my life, and while it sucks, I have no real reason to complain about those things because my own choices led me here. And all of these things can be overcome with time, effort, and self-improvement. There is something I can complain about, though. Health problems! Fuck them. My health was never an issue in the past, but just over a year ago, I was saddled with one of the worst things possible (for me anyhow). And I'm still suffering. And that's why I'm pissed. My old job screwed me... no, I screwed myself for taking it. I used to be a carpet technician (that's fancy talk for carpet cleaner). I'd go into private homes, vacation homes, offices, RVs, then nuke the carpets with strong, corrosive chemicals that can literally burn the rubber off the soles of shoes. I was around that stuff daily, for hours, inhaling the fumes that the steamer would shoot up towards my face. Sometimes I'd take an odd job and clean private jets in closed hangars that smelled like fuel and the bottom of a kitchen sink. And in hindsight, it was my own damned fault for not thinking much of it. The job was easy. It got me around and I got to see gorgeous homes up high in the mountains that I still can't fathom. I worked that job for about two years; I quit when I started coughing up blood one night. I was already having respiratory problems before I spat the red surprises into the sink - choking at night, trouble breathing while sitting down, constant coughing - but I'd tell myself it was nothing. I was that stupid and stubborn about it, and it took a splattered sink to make me realize that maybe, just maybe, there is a problem. That was over a year ago. After going to the doctor, I was given no options but to take it easy and take medication. No work wooo yeah right it was hell, those first few months after quitting the job. I didn't think it was possible to feel like you've ran a mile for something as easy as going up a few 10 steps on a staircase. At random times, I'd feel like I was breathing through a straw, and any attempt to take a deep breath would have me choking in my own throat. And I'm a person who enjoys the outdoors and physical activities... I couldn't go hiking with friends. Oh, how I tried. I once rode my bike to the nearby mall, which is half a mile away, and when I came to and back home, I felt like I could have died then and there. My insides were burning; I could not breathe properly. The world was pulsing in every color and rippling about, and my head was spinning. I rested and leaned on the first thing I came in contact with that looked comfortable - a trash bin. That was the worst part... being unable to enjoy the little things. I was told to avoid physical activities until I got better, but my stubbornness proved immortal and I exerted myself anyways whenever I was given the chance. I didn't want to become a slave to the handicap I had then, and I didn't want to lose the little things that make up my simple existence. I tried to get a job again but I was disheartened by my persistent one-minute-long coughing fits, and I'd be damned if I was going to sit in my room and slowly waste away with my shot lungs. To be quite frank, I'd rather be dead. The gamble didn't bite me back, and my breathing has improved tremendously ever since I quit working as a carpet cleaner. But, it's still shit. I honestly cannot remember what it's like to breathe properly. I don't remember what it's like to go a day without coughing out chunks. I don't remember what it's like to inhale and exhale without feeling every scratch in my lungs. I don't remember what it's like being able to relax after a long walk. Every morning, I have to force out whatever is fucking up my breathing, and I've been doing it for the past year. It fucking sucks. I want my healthy lungs back, and it's scary not knowing if I ever will. I want to be able to take long, consistent, deep breaths without having to strain myself. It's all I ask for right now. But I can't, and I don't know who or what to be angry at for it. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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