Something In The Way

My stomach churns, feeling as though it’s twisting into a knot. It hurts, hurts so much. Waves of nausea crash through my body, emanating from my stomach and spreading like a virus. If I had any medical knowledge at all, I’d take a scalpel, cut open my gut and remove my stomach. It would be the ultimate relief. I see it in my mind: Standing in a room, with the skin on my belly flapping open like a screen door in the wind, blood dripping out and onto the floor. In one hand, I hold the red-tinged scalpel, and in the other hand, my stomach – a bloody mess, slippery to hold and slimy to the touch, covered with a thin layer of viscous mucus. In my mind, the pain of cutting into myself is immensely more bearable than that of my stomach gurgling and bubbling inside of me. In my mind, once I reach inside and remove the offending organ, I instantly feel like a million bucks. In my mind, I stitch myself up with a needle and thread, trash the stomach, and get on with my life pain-free. In my mind. In reality, my stomach swirls about inside of me, like a hypnotist’s pinwheel.

“Do you have to go to the bathroom?”
“Maybe it’s something you ate?”
“Don’t worry about it, it’ll pass…”

These people don’t understand. They don’t wake up every morning with excruciating pain, so much so that it pains me to think I’ve gotten used to it already. There is nothing about my demeanour or behaviour to suggest I’m hurting. I take the subway, walk to work, sit at my desk, go out with friends, and no one is the wiser. But inside, I feel like my stomach died and the rest of my body is kicking it while it’s down. Inside, I am doubled over in pain. Inside, I am screaming, sweating, and crying. Outside, I am smiling politely, quietly chuckling at people’s jokes, and giving off an air of health and comfort. But inside…

“Are you taking anything for it?”
“Maybe you’re just hungry.”
“I can give you the name of a really good doctor…”

I haven’t always masked my pain. In the beginning I would tell anyone who listened that my stomach hurt. Such a common complaint was taken lightly, and always met with questions regarding my eating and bathroom habits. I would clutch my stomach, groaning quietly. I would curl up in my bed or on the floor in a fetal position, and moan to myself, asking questions to no one in particular: Why is this happening? When will it end? What did I do, eat, or drink to bring this on? How long can this last? Please… Make it stop…

“It’s because you don’t eat healthy enough.”
“Did you have a lot to drink last night?”
“Try some tea and toast.”

My stomach feels like it’s collapsing into itself. I wonder if the pain will ever go away, or will I suffer every day for the rest of my life? The misery doesn’t last all day. Sometimes it’s only a few minutes in the morning, other times it’s a few hours throughout the day. Some days I don’t eat or drink, because the thought of ingesting anything torments my already-anguished stomach. I read a lot about Kurt Cobain. He too had a debilitating and chronic stomach condition, partially blamed for driving him to suicide. His intense pain drove him to the depths of depression, despite the dozens of doctors he visited around the world in hope of finding a cure. Ultimately, Kurt turned to heroin for relief of his pain. When that didn’t work, he shot himself.

“It can’t be that bad, you look fine to me.”
“Have you seen a doctor about it?”
“It’s just a stomach-ache, it’s nothing serious.”