When Moms Wipe Your Ass: Day 2

When Moms Wipe Your Ass: Day 2

I’ve been listening to the same playlist since I left San Diego on the 8th. The night before I left she laid in my bed in my t shirt and made me this playlist while I packed all my shit. Three weeks is a long time to be gone. Trying to get by in a world where every minute is its own year. I learned some things about HSP (hyper sensitive people) today. I’m one of those people. Apparently it’s a condition. My insides trying to tear themselves out over just about anything.

I’m always trying to get better. I will try harder than anyone.

I don’t like to make excuses but sometimes I get the best of myself. And that pisses me off too. An inside only fist fight. When I talk about things the way I see them or the things that get me upset about the world I don’t find a lot of sympathy in other people’s eyes. I know we are all looking at the same thing but we’re also not, at all.

You can be the king in one room and a complete jackass in another. And you’d be the same person. And you’d feel really good in one and hate yourself in the other. And you’d just have to learn to deal with that or to just go in the good room all the time.

My buddy asked me how I broke my back when I was younger.

“Playing baseball.”

He raised his eyebrow.

“My cleet got stuck in the batter’s box on a swing and my hip-flexor exploded, my hip bone ripped off with it.”

The rest of my swing took my lower back with it. I tried to walk it off but collapsed. My coach told me later that I let out the longest string of cuss words he had ever heard in his 30 year coaching career.

“So how long was it before you were able to walk again?”

I suppose I was should have been bed-ridden for a while. I couldn’t fucking move the left side of my body for one thing. But they gave me this bed pan and I was supposed to pee and shit in it and my mom was supposed to come in the room and wipe my ass and take the pan away and dump it down the toilet and I was supposed to lie there and wait for the coldness of her hands to leave my assholes’s memory.

I keep getting the feedback from people that I’m not good at keeping my opinion to myself. It’s a running joke with the people I work with. Like I’m somehow thinking something that isn’t exactly the same as what they are thinking because when I actually open my mouth and say the thing I suddenly live on my own island and no one else wants to live on that island.

“You’re a long way from being able to use those,” the doctor told me.

I couldn’t let my mom wipe my 16 year old ass.

“Just give me the crutches.”

And I dragged myself from my bed to the toilet in a pain that would rip the siding off a house and stood over the toilet and sometimes sat with the company of a worse pain and then I dragged myself back to my bedroom and lifted my own destroyed legs up one at a time and laid back in bed and tried not to let tears roll when I closed my eyes and clenched my fists

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