The 6:00 am alarm rings.
I do not budge. 10 minutes pass. 15 minutes pass. 30 minutes pass. 45 minutes pass. I am lying in the fetal position on the floor of my bedroom. I am gripping at my lower abdomen. My pelvis pulsates. I imagine someone ringing a rag within me.
I am fifteen, and an unapologetic tomboy, no stranger to injuries from running or flag football. But the pain at this moment is excruciating on another level; it would surpass car accident ailments, skimmed knees, and tattoos in years to come.
My mother strives to sooth my contorting figure. Perplexed, she dials an emergency hotline listed in a pamphlet from our kitchen counter. She then relays the doctor’s inquiries to me, one-by-one, each meeting a dead end. She clicks on the speakerphone and a soft voice emerges.
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I spent months, years even, quite literally, drowning. I didn’t just have cramps; I had what felt like a caged bird inside of me, feral, and flapping its wings in a frenzy of feathers. I didn’t just feel senses of sharp pain; I would drop to the ground, forcefully, (hunched over a pillow, rocking back and forth, clinging to my consciousness)-- as waves of impending destruction deluged me like Niagra Falls. I didn’t just experience brain fog; I experienced dementia comparable to nursing home patients, ushered to their daily meals down the same halls they wandered every day, but never seemed to remember. Reality’s gravity pulled me into a dark, hollow place matched only by my physically weakened