The inevitable

I'm still without painkillers and it's working fine. I'm more careful with my movements which is probably good regardless if it hurts or not. It doesn't hurt that bad, at least not when I'm idle. It's hardly more noticeable than my headache, it's actually almost like they're competing with each other.

When I was seeing my doctor today I also got to meet my new "contact person" rather forced upon me, within the mental health care department, something odd struck me. That contact person said something about that I should try to slowly "let go of" my mother. As if I was clinging to her (do I?) because she won't live forever. And it just suddenly struck me, that I think she knows, and I think we both have a mutual, but very silent, understanding that I won't outlive my mother.
It's not something anyone of us can know until the day comes when one of us dies. But it's more of a sensation of sorts. Like yeah, I've survived three serious and twelve half assedly suicide attempts in less than ten years... I'm not gonna just snap out of it and live to 80. My suicide risk is extremely high. You can't just take that out of the equation and give me false hopes about getting better and live a long and happy life ever after, as that contact person of mine supposedly tried to. This is me being clinical about it, just so you know. I'm still rather euphoric since the surgery, I'm just talking out of perspective. (Euphoria, isn't that like the opposite of dysphoria? How interesting.)

During the car ride from Visby after the meeting my mind started to wander again. As the rain fell hard against the wind shield for 38 minutes, I fantasised about driving myself. That I had once, not so long ago, told my mother that one day I will drive a car, whether I'll have a driver's licence or not. And the thoughts led me to summer. That I might not have so long left and I don't want to waste time anymore. I have for a long time now felt as if I'm living on borrowed time, like I'm being chased by the inevitable with the number 27 etched into my mind, knowing it's only two or three summers left.

But enough about my death. In my fantasy I had stolen my mother's car, drunk half a bottle of rum (or something like that) and driven full speed ahead through the dusty streets on Gotland this summer. Cause why go easy when you can break a few more laws while you're at it? I've had that fantasy for so many years now, and of all my dangerous and illegal fantasies this one could actually come true and not cost me the rest of my life. Just stay away from cops and speed cameras.