Doctors Cure Evol; Reduce Fever

I’ve always had super ventricular tachycardia. I recently started taking the meds to slow my heart down. The side effects aren’t worth it. Medication doesn’t work anymore. They are talking about a very simple procedure to cut a piece of my heart out. Get it out of the way.

I’ve always been aware of the sacrifices that must be made to be an artist. Secrets on napkins and sticky notes crammed in suitcases; knowledge that everything is beautiful. Doctors have a name and cure for it. Certain criteria we all carry as prior experience, chronologically chronic. Depression, insomnia, emotional suffering, ect. Cant stop the thoughts, they have to get out and you are just a body getting in the way of their intentions. They have drugs to treat that too. And more drugs to treat the side effects. Whatever mental disorder you didn’t have before, you just swallowed. We are addicted to the misery because we know we can turn the subjective into objective, with pen and paper. Have to meet our quotas and scribble on whatever obstacle finds us in our neighborhood, our cul-de-sac of writers block. All the electricity cut, shades drawn, doors locked, motionless “do not disturb” doorknobs. All of us; deadbolts waiting for light to overcome Dead dark that keeps us meandering within the posts of our beds. Waiting for some beam of fluorescence to turn us on.

We feed our pets the table scraps of whatever we picked apart at supper. Humble dogs that accompany our manic pacing. Wish I could say “you dog, you,” and dump you at some shelter, but I know I would miss the frustration, your shattering bark, dripping fangs waiting to sink deep. Miss the fleabites, the itching and the passion of scratching, the smell of your flea powder.

Never could write about it. Not even read about it. It all sounded the same, looked the same, layers of repetition. Just like this. Just another account. Nothing special, out of the ordinary. What a bored reader you must be. How out of place I must be, to even illustrate ‘’me” into my own story, non-poetically like this; stark raving mad in…?

When a single word is read over and over again, examined, it loses its meaning. Exceeds its purpose to relate to its origin in the dictionary. Then here this word lands on my bleached lap and im trying to understand it, but I can’t scoop it up without the letters slipping through my fingers. Turns out they aren’t connected; strung together. There is no order to the alphabet. No boundaries for these uncontrollable regurgitations.

I’ve always had supraventricular tachycardia. Not like this. Thoughts could never trigger the attacks. Never had a heart attack simply from human contact. The blackouts weren’t as frequent, and the strobing lights never overcame my vision quite so sporadically. Have to pull over on the highway. Burdening EKG’s, echocardiograms, take home heart monitors strapped to my chest. Stop what im doing to catch a breath. Avoid stairs. Avoid thought, emotion. Quit coffee. Trying to silence this weakened muscle, kill it off completely.

Never believed in depression. Now I’ve been upped to 350 mg. Extended release. Deep red, the internal white beads rattle the cage of the capsule like maracas. I shake them close to my ear every morning before choking them down. Can’t help but occasionally pry off the shell and roll the active ingredient between my fingertips. Separate thumb from forefinger so that some of the beads rain over the wastebasket, and a select few stick to my skin.

Never been so direct. A big turning point in psychology grew from the idea that physical conditions can arise from psychological conditions, unresolved conflict, and things of that matter.

Simplicity has been here all along. Yet it’s something without a cure.