Taking Mice for Granted
This woman named Jo Cameron was born with two genetic mutations:
- A different FAAH gene, which reduces her ability to feel pain, both physical and emotional;
- A defective FAAH-OUT gene, whose sole purpose is to activate the FAAH gene.
Essentially, she feels no pain, no anxiety. She cannot suffer. She broke her arm when she was eight years old and only went to the doctor three days later because her arm looked funny. When she gave birth, it tickled her.
She’s a mutant with a superpower.
But, after these past few years – barring time travel and/or the ability to detect and destroy cancer – I think that the superpower I’d like the most is Jo’s power.
Because, man, do I get people being hooked on painkillers.
This week/month has been a rollercoaster of emotional pain. Both from Alison and the Gymgirl. The kind where I’m sitting down on my shower floor hyperventilating.
I actually do have to take painkillers to manage it. That’s how severe it’s been. The insomnia’s back too, because, of course it’s back…
I’d like to tell you more about the Gymgirl but now’s not really the right time.
I will say that she floored me the other night because we hadn’t spoken for a while. And when we did, she said I took her for granted. That’s the last thing I would do.
Then again, I’ve always said that communication is what the other side hears, not what you say.
It’s my fault if she somehow heard that she wasn’t that important.
Her: (dismissively) I’m just a placeholder in your life.
Me: (shaking head) That’s precisely the opposite of what you are. You’re not even a front-runner; you’re the only game in town.
That placeholder bit kept me up all night because it’s so far left field. I didn’t really fully appreciate the depth of what she was saying until I was alone in bed.
The worst things creep into my head in the middle of the night because it’s when the world and my thoughts quiet down. And I start to understand things.
I’m trying to wrap my head around everything but, FWIW, I was trying to do the right thing by her but it turned out that I did exactly the opposite of what she wanted me to do.
To top it all off, afterward, I behaved in a way that I’m not proud of and I’m disappointed in myself. It was rough all around.
I should remember that this never happens when I drink rum. But that’s neither here nor there.
There’s more, but that’s all I wanted to say for now.
Me: Hurry up, we’re gonna be late!
Mouse: We? You’re gonna be late. I’m gonna be a pleasant surprise.
She was my pleasant surprise in all this shit. I thought she knew.
On that note, I’m just going to call her Mouse here from this point forward, for however long that is.
Because the only reason I used Gymgirl instead of Mouse, which is what everyone calls her, was because of our inappropriately possessive ex-coach and his insane jealousy, which is a whole ‘nother story for another time.
Music: Oh, I guess I should have told her; I thought she knew
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