No Hope

Lately it feels like everything is unraveling. So much so that I gave serious contemplation on Saturday to suicide; the only thing that stopped me was a prescient warning that my former doctor gave me that most people who attempt to OD on Vicodin merely end up giving themselves severe liver damage.

The threads began unfraying in mid-December with the dissolution of my eight-year relationship with Lela, followed in short order by a painful herniated disc in my lower back; two strains of the flu virus; and then the big one, a brain aneurysm that apparently caused me to lose consciousness and collapse on the sidewalk near my home where I fractured my ribs, followed by two weeks of invasive medical tests and procedures, with surgery likely in March. And one week ago I came home from a series of MRI tests to discover that my gas service had been disconnected. I have no hot water, no way to wash the dishes piling up in the kitchen and no way to bathe or shower.

Tomorrow, Monday, I will lose my internet service unless I can come up with $71.46, and without internet I lose my connection to the outside world. I have no groceries, no hope, no anything.

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About Rodger Jacobs

Writer

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