Three (drug-hazed) days post-surgery. My roommate is an elderly woman who had her hip replaced two days ago. We have gone from having the curtain be closed all the time to only keeping it closed at night. The drugs give me zero appetite, but these last seven months of involuntary inactivity has made me pack on enough pounds to last me through a couple of hard winters. Or surgeries.

Expected release day is either Monday or Tuesday.

I’m on the top floor, which means that I wake up and fall asleep to the most gorgeous view. The green building in the last photograph is a part of the apartment complex that is my new home. My building, which has less floors, is hiding somewhere behind it.

This was written yesterday, before the dramatic crash of all of GoDaddy’s servers — an event that nearly made me pee my pants (SSFB doesn’t usually lead to incontinence). 

***

I woke up feeling horrible yesterday morning, and knew immediately what it was: the SSFB. Sofie’s Seasonal Flu Bug. It happens every time the season changes, especially when the weather acts all schizophrenic; which has definitely been the case this year. All day yesterday I felt like I had been kicked in the face by a horse, but now I am more bothered by a cold, a cough, a stomachache (maybe my pants are too tight), and a pressure on my chest. It’s CLASSIC SSFB.

The only positive thing is that there was no hablo-ing Espanöl today.

So, needless to say, I have done absolutely NOTHING today. I got two hours of sleep last night, and woke up with a tissue clenched in my hand like I was afraid that somebody was going to come in and steal it (the mental side-effect to SSFB is paranoia), and then I got up and laid on the couch instead, where I have been ever since, having watched one bad TV-show after another. This is still happening.

School started, and I am in my third week.

It’s a lot more exhausting than originally anticipated.

Me llamo Sofie. Estudio españiol y psicologia.

No. No hablo español.

—

I am still living with my grandparents.

I have made their guestroom my own.

I know every sound, noise and shadow of this place.

I know where the floor shrieks. I am careful not to walk there when they are asleep.

The part of the hip bone that is broken has moved. I was told a little over a week ago. Then I went to school and learned about reflexive pronouns.

Overall, I would say nothing much has changed.

A couple of days ago, I decided it was time to throw out all of my school-related papers and notes. Except for my essays and one paper explaining how and why a human being differs from a rock, in the grand scheme of things. I think it’s good and healthy to every once in a while be reminded of your non-rock status. Especially if you feel like the universe has dropped you like a rock, or if you feel like you are living under a rock. I am trying to become more feng-shui with my things and my way of life, you see, for two reasons. ONE, I have too.much.shit, especially things that I only keep for sentimental reasons. Like my Spice Girls shirt from when I was eight — that’s a pretty good example. And TWO, I am hoping to be moving soon. More on that later.

But back to rocks. Right now, my everyday-life is pretty close to that of a rock. I spend most of my time lying or sitting, drinking coca-cola zero, shopping online (everybody knows that online shopping is a rock’s favorite pastime), or coloring in my coloring book. I am currently taking a break from my Woody Allen-phase, and am instead focusing all my love and attention on The West Wing, which has become a part of my nightly ritual. I am telling you right now that I couldn’t do it. Work in the White House, I mean. I would **** myself EVERY SINGLE DAY out of sheer anxiety and pressure. My nerves and myself are simply not cut out to handle that kind of serious business.

I am currently back in my own apartment, which has been a tough change to swallow, but I am trying to deal. I haven’t left the apartment since Sunday, because, well, I can’t. I can’t walk on stairs and I live on the first floor. Sunday I am starting school again, and for that reason my grandparents will once again have to take me in, as the transport-service I have (which can get me down the stairs in a wheelchair) can be only be used for leisure. It’s a ridiculous rule, but a rule none the less. For the next year, I will be studying Spanish  A and Psychology B (the Psychology class is only for half a year), and I am anxious to get started, but also nervous. After finishing this, I will be done FOR REAL. I just need these credits to be finished.

I am still unsure about what to wear on my first day of school… or is that not something you have to worry about when you are an adult? I can’t remember what I wore on my first day when I last had a first day. Do you have any suggestions? What would you wear?

Before.

Some nights ago I spent some time browsing through the obscene stream of photos that are currently hogging up all the space on my phone. Some of them I don’t remember taking, like the ones taken in the days following the accident. I just don’t remember. I have been told that epileptic seizures do not lead to memory loss unless you have had hundreds of them. I have had 4 in total. Nevertheless, I feel, and has felt this every single time, that my short-time memory has been affected In some way. Things don’t stick, and days gone by become blurry. All of this could probably be entirely blamed on the shock of the experience, and be viewed as my subconsciousness trying to put the pieces back together in my head in order to make the puzzle fit. Any additional noise on the airwaves might be unnecessary at this point.

Once the hospital had me take a test, where I was strapped to a gurney, which was then put upright. The nurse put a tablet of nitroglycerin underneath my tongue, and did some additional thing which I don’t remember. I never understood the point of the test, only that it had something to do with understanding the cause of my epilepsy. The nurse spent the whole duration of the test with her back turned towards me, observing the reactions of my brain, heart, pulse, etc, as they were happening. After sticking it out for thirty minutes, counting every second of every minute, experiencing the worst bouts of dizziness, heat-flashes, nausea, cold-sweats, etc, I finally told her that I couldn’t handle it anymore. I was going to pass out. She put the gurney down and gave me a glass of lemonade, which I sipped while she waved me with a pamphlet. I was pale as a ghost, and felt totally betrayed that nobody had told me how nauseatingly awful this would be. She brought my mother in, and together we got the results of the exam. “The aim was to get you to pass out”, she said, “To see exactly what happens in your brain when you do”. Well, that was sure news to me. She then continued, “You were too strong, though. Your body really fought for you.” When she said that, I felt proud. Proud to have such a strong army of organisms working in my favor, keeping up their end of the deal.

After the accident (I accidentally wrote “innocent” — freudian slip?) , the word that came to mind constantly when trying to explain how I was feeling was “disconnect”. It’s splattered all over my journal, like word vomit. DISCONNECT DISCONNECT DISCONNECT. I have felt, and still feel completely disconnected from my body. I am so angry with it that if I could I would make it sleep on the couch. On top of that, I feel like I am living inside a bubble, looking out at everybody else.

I cry several times a day.

Today I tried to sort out of my future… I know which university I want to attend next year, and I know what I want to major in. I also know that I would want to participate in the exchange student program, with an American university being my preference. But, what does all of this matter, when the word “want” is not connected to any sort of emotion for me? Logically, I would want it. I know the old Sofie would. Emotionally, I am completely apathetic. It doesn’t get me excited. When doing this, I feel like I am planning somebody else’s life.

I am writing all of this here, because I can’t say it out loud. I don’t think I am very good at hiding it, though.

I am back in the summerhouse, and I can finally say with no exaggeration that the weather is nothing less than LOVELY. When the sun finally decides to pay us a visit, the Danish summers are difficult to compete with. There is absolutely no need to go anywhere else, weather- and temperature-wise. What a privilege it is to be able to spend all day lounging around in a lawn chair with turning the pages of the book you are reading being the only strain.

I may have mentioned this before, but I have officially no longer on any sort of pain killers. I felt one morning that I no longer needed them, and have been just fine ever since. My hip is no longer in pain, except for the few times where I accidently flex the muscles surrounding that area. That hurts. Mentally, I am also on the right track. Last night, 12:30am, was the “anniversary” of the accident. That’s what I refer to it as, both in English and in Danish. I cannot believe it’s been a month. I also can’t believe how much I have changed in that month. There has been so much internal processing and inward-looking that I am positive I will never be the same again. As a person, I am no better or worse, just different.

Yesterday, when we were driving to the summerhouse, my grandmother asked me how I felt this whole thing had affected me, as far as mentality goes. At least I think that is what she asked me. It is horrible, but I think I remember my own process of reflecting better than the question itself. All I know is that I told her that I no longer believed in fate. I no longer believe that I have been singled out as the carrier of all of these diseases because I can carry this amount of weight on my shoulders. Throughout my life, I have always believed that the consequences of my chronic illnesses would at one point come to a halt. That someone would say, enough is enough, we are going to give her a break and let all the shit she has going on already become status quo. I am not a religious, and yet I talk as if I was once a believer. I guess I was a believer. I must have believed in something, or else it wouldn’t be possible for my illusions to have become shattered. Whatever beliefs I had smoldered between my fingers that night.

All of this sounds awfully depressing, but I feel more clear-sighted than ever. The thing is, I am actually able to accept this change within myself. I feel strongly that it is here to stay, and while twenty-three is a little young to become such a bitter old woman realist, it is actually liberating. It has led to me buying 200 dollars worth of clothing as a way of dressing this new person (don’t worry, I could afford it). I bought her a pair of sunglasses and a new bag, cardigans, shirts; all stuff that I have never permitted the old person, old me, to enjoy. The old me has waited for a day where all the pieces would fit together; where I had the right body, dress-size, and life to be able to a person worth investing in. Isn’t that horrible and masochistic? The new me realizes that if you put shit in one hand and wishes in the other hand, shit will fill up faster, and I just need to live in the moment and dress for the occasion.

Needless to say, it helps to write about it. All of this might read as insane nonsense, and that is okay. I accept that, too. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a lawn chair and a book waiting for me. Toodles!