I guess no one ever does.
When a man answered her cell phone and identified himself as a detective, I knew something wasn't right. She had died in her sleep, a seizure. She was twenty two also... and the absolute love of my life. I don't talk about her much anymore, but for the sake of Poop Report, I will.
After she passed away, like I said, my life changed. Before, I was a normal, happy guy. I had the nice car, the hot girl, and everything was grand. I never really drank or did a lot of drugs. I'm not gonna lie and say I was an angel, but nothing I did was ever really in access. Every so often we'd go out and get fucked up, but that's to be expected. It was never to the point of being a problem; but once she died, I felt life to be unbearable. I turned to drugs and alcohol to keep me in balance.
For about six months after her death, all I did was drink and take whatever drugs were available, anything I could swallow. I cursed God for what he had done and planned to take revenge by destroying my own body. And this, my fellow Poop Reporters, is where this tale will begin. After six months of offending my mind and body with whatever intoxicants I could introduce into it, my body decided it had had enough.
I got up for work after a hard night of boozing it up (and a handful of some pink pills) and showered off the previous night's debauchery. I stood in the shower, half bleary-eyed, half drunk, and wished God would just end my life. I blinked a few times and no such luck; I was still standing in the shower. As I looked down, I noticed a brownish haze in the water. Blankly, I stared at it. Seeing brown water in your home isn't the strangest thing. Whenever they blow out the fire hydrants, you get brown water in your house for a few minutes. No biggie, it will go away. But it didn't. The brown water was coming from the blood that I was pissing. Sensing a little bit of urgency, I jumped out of the shower to figure out what the bloody fuck was going on. Quickly I grabbed a towel and ran out of the bathroom and woke my older brother.
"It's 8:00, what the fuck Mike?"
"I'm pissing blood. That can't be good."
"You get kicked in the nuts or punched in the back last night?"
"I blacked out at my buddy's house. I remember taking a bunch of pink pills"
"Call your buddy right the fuck now and find out what you took."
It turns out I took a whole bunch of some sort of flu medication, and it was shutting down my kidneys, so off to the hospital we went. I may have been suicidal, but for fuck's sake, I don't want to die! Save me!
Luckily, it was just a warning sign. My body was telling me ‘hey douche bag, cut the shit and get back on track...' After the barrage of tests, hospital staff sent me home with some pills and told me to lay off the sauce. I took my pills as prescribed and went to lie down. The doctor told me I may have some ‘discomfort' from the pills. The pills were to clear out my body.
Discomfort? A blister on your toe is discomfort. A skinned knee is discomfort. The anal beating I was about to go through could hardly be described as discomfort. I'd put it on par with surgery without anesthesia.
I drifted off to sleep and everything actually felt ok. For the first time in over six months I felt ok. It was the calm before the storm, a false poophoria. I felt the initial pangs of birth about forty minutes after the first pill was ingested.
To the bathroom I went; it was the dawn of a new life. I looked into the toilet as if it were the sun rising for the first time. Gingerly, I sat down upon the pot to ponder my thoughts and figure out what I should do with my now ruined life.
And then I felt it.
It was like a hot razorblade slicing into my anus. Buckets of pure fire shot forth from my ass and spackled the inside of my bowl. "Oh fuck!" I yelped. Blast after blast of molten lava spewed out of my bung for what felt like an eternity. The eye of the storm would come and I'd be able to flush down the pure vileness of this anal atrocity. I leaned back on the cold toilet lid, waiting... I knew it wasn't over. The gurgling in my stomach had subsided. Maybe it was over.
Wearily, I arose from my now damned toilet. I pushed the plunger and watched what was left of my heart flush down the toilet. It was the dawn of a new day for me. My body had rid itself of all that had offended it and it would now start anew.
I shit about seven more times that day, each one more painful than the last; but the man upstairs had more in store for me. In my quest of redemption and depravity, I had caught somewhat of a drug habit. I was addicted to pain meds. My father had a pretty good stash of pain meds for his back. He rarely, if ever took them, and so they sat until I found them. Six months and hundreds of pills later, I was an unknowing drug addict.
Like I said, it was a new day and the start of a new life. There would be no prescription drugs in this new life. The next three days of detox ranked as the second worst experience I have ever had in my life (you can guess what number one would be...).
I could deal with the vomiting and just general shitty feeling... but the pooting. Sweet Baby Jesus, the shitting. There was nothing really left in my stomach from the pills the doctor had given to me. I had shit out everything but an old license plate at that point. I wasn't eating a whole lot, so there was just nothing left to expel.
I would get the feeling of having to shit, and so I'd go sit on the pot. My stomach would contract as if it was trying to rid itself of the offending demons, but the only result would be pain. Like serrated bread knives, it dug into my stomach. It was life changing.
After about three days, normalcy returned. The sky was a forgiving shade of blue, the same color as her eyes. The shits disappeared and normal defecation returned. I had been given a second chance and I was hopeful.
It's been about eight-and-a-half years since she passed, and I've been somewhat sober for the last eight. I still enjoy the occasional Jaeger or beer, and I have been known on occasion to smoke some cannabis, but it's all done in moderation now. As one life had ended, a new one had begun for me. I still miss her, a lot, but I've learned to accept and deal. Trying to hide from the reality by covering it with an alcohol bandaid only worsened the problems.