Haha no, that's an exaggeration*. Well, maybe, we'll never know. But let me tell you a tale of when I was close to dying (proportion of situation pending) without knowing it.
A day or two after getting back to Uruguay, I noticed something weird on my chest. These red spots, kind of rough texture. Huh... whatever! It's probably cat aids I got from a stray cat in San Francisco or, like, a peruvian flu. My mom insisted it was an allergy to dulce de leche but that shit is ridiculous. I didn't pay attention to the one-inch wide, rashy-looking things on my chest, about 12 of them, spread throughout my chest (and boobs).
A week went by and I was starting to believe what my mother was saying about an allergy. The spots turned into sores, and now I had one on my face. Which sometimes discharged yellow crap.
I felt really pretty.
I actively started to worry, changed my sheets and washed all my clothing. Twice. No change. I mentioned to my friend, jokingly, that I might *actually* have AIDS, hahahalulz. He looked at me, with a straight face, and asked when had I had my last STD check. It'd been a while (note to self: get fucking tested, goddammit!). I freaked out, and google image searched AIDS lesions.
The third week into the rash and the panic levels were comparable to a tea-partier in a ODGWKTA concert. I was even more worried that my mom, who is known to be a vicarious hypochondriac through me. The woman blew off her cancer treatment like it was a mosquito bite but calls a doctor every time I have a hang nail.
I didn't go to the doctor because I didn't have health insurance at the time and I was so broke I couldn't afford a walk-in. Also, asides from moments of intense stress-crying about the nasty-looking but painless sores, I didn't feel sick or anything, so whatever.
Four weeks went by and I suddenly (like, totally literally suddenly, I think I was pooping when this happened) realized that it MAY BE one of the meds I was taking. About a year and a half ago I was prescribed a mood-regulating/epilepsy medication to help with my crazy. At the time the doctor said that some people are allergic to the shit, and, that if I got a skin rash, I should stop taking the pills immediately and go see a doctor. Because it might kill me.
HUH, I thought. CURIOUSER AND CURIOUSER. I stopped taking the pills and went to a doctor, but like, days later. The doctor told me that thank god I stopped when I did, because if those sores appeared on the outside, I also had them on the *inside* of my body and I would have died pretty soon, probably.
And now I'm really sad because the pills are gone and that's fucking with my brain chemistry, but at least I'm not dead. Although the excess serotonin playing in a slip-n-slide of despair that is my organism is making me believe I wish I were, in fact, dead, this is a good thing. Because as soon as I go to the shrink, they will pump me up with some other mood-regulator (probably Lithium, and then I can be the star of my own Nirvana song) and I will be fine, right?
Right?
* exaggeration is a word I can NEVER type correctly on the first go, I often spell "exxageration".
also, b4 you leave, check out this girl's blog. it's NSFW and she's kind of an internet prostitute, BUT HER NIPPLES ARE HEARTS. she tattooed her areolas into heart shapes. it's the coolest and I want one!
A day or two after getting back to Uruguay, I noticed something weird on my chest. These red spots, kind of rough texture. Huh... whatever! It's probably cat aids I got from a stray cat in San Francisco or, like, a peruvian flu. My mom insisted it was an allergy to dulce de leche but that shit is ridiculous. I didn't pay attention to the one-inch wide, rashy-looking things on my chest, about 12 of them, spread throughout my chest (and boobs).
 |
| it did *NOT* look like this. instead of picturing how gross it was, look at these nice boobs! |
A week went by and I was starting to believe what my mother was saying about an allergy. The spots turned into sores, and now I had one on my face. Which sometimes discharged yellow crap.
I felt really pretty.
I actively started to worry, changed my sheets and washed all my clothing. Twice. No change. I mentioned to my friend, jokingly, that I might *actually* have AIDS, hahahalulz. He looked at me, with a straight face, and asked when had I had my last STD check. It'd been a while (note to self: get fucking tested, goddammit!). I freaked out, and google image searched AIDS lesions.
 |
| do yourself a favor and do *not* google aids lesions. here's a kitty. |
The third week into the rash and the panic levels were comparable to a tea-partier in a ODGWKTA concert. I was even more worried that my mom, who is known to be a vicarious hypochondriac through me. The woman blew off her cancer treatment like it was a mosquito bite but calls a doctor every time I have a hang nail.
 |
| my mom is also a famous perpetrator of this ^ |
I didn't go to the doctor because I didn't have health insurance at the time and I was so broke I couldn't afford a walk-in. Also, asides from moments of intense stress-crying about the nasty-looking but painless sores, I didn't feel sick or anything, so whatever.
 |
| fuck da police |
Four weeks went by and I suddenly (like, totally literally suddenly, I think I was pooping when this happened) realized that it MAY BE one of the meds I was taking. About a year and a half ago I was prescribed a mood-regulating/epilepsy medication to help with my crazy. At the time the doctor said that some people are allergic to the shit, and, that if I got a skin rash, I should stop taking the pills immediately and go see a doctor. Because it might kill me.
HUH, I thought. CURIOUSER AND CURIOUSER. I stopped taking the pills and went to a doctor, but like, days later. The doctor told me that thank god I stopped when I did, because if those sores appeared on the outside, I also had them on the *inside* of my body and I would have died pretty soon, probably.
 |
| i always imagined my death to be more like this |
And now I'm really sad because the pills are gone and that's fucking with my brain chemistry, but at least I'm not dead. Although the excess serotonin playing in a slip-n-slide of despair that is my organism is making me believe I wish I were, in fact, dead, this is a good thing. Because as soon as I go to the shrink, they will pump me up with some other mood-regulator (probably Lithium, and then I can be the star of my own Nirvana song) and I will be fine, right?
Right?
* exaggeration is a word I can NEVER type correctly on the first go, I often spell "exxageration".
also, b4 you leave, check out this girl's blog. it's NSFW and she's kind of an internet prostitute, BUT HER NIPPLES ARE HEARTS. she tattooed her areolas into heart shapes. it's the coolest and I want one!
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