How I Ended Up Living Back At My Parents' House At Twenty-three.

So, those of you who follow my life with any sort of interest whatsoever probably know some of the story. Those who either have no clue who I am, or didn't pay any attention whatsoever will now learn the full tale of the adventure which started earlier this summer, and wound up with the creation of this blog. Now, as I write this, I'm running on Excedrin and coke, so forgive me any crazy tangents.

Approximately 38,000 years ago, I moved out of my parents house and into an apartment with a good friend of mine. Seeing as I quit/was fired (It was never really clear. I'll tell this story another time, if anyone wants to hear it.) literally the day before the lease was signed, perhaps it was not the best of plans. With no real plan or strategy other than letting pure, magical optimism power me through, I went through with it anyway. This removed me from any hope of being able to pay for medical expenses, but so what? I was young, eager, and I was wearing black slacks with accentuating off-white pinstripes, and I had become convinced by a Panic! At the Disco song that this meant everything would be okay. These moments of sheer optimism outshining any form of logic are common for me, and often end rather badly.

Now, for about six months, I lived there, and was even able to manage to pay some rent, despite my consistent unemployment. That too, is a story for another time, so suffice it to say that around the very start of summer, things took, well... a bit of a turn. First, I had just started school, working hard for the first time in my 23 years. Second, with immense help from my father, I had just managed to pay off my stupid credit card debt. Lesson learned, I was looking forward to life, and ready to keep blindly stumbling forward. I should have taken the fact that things were going immeasurably well as the first sign of possible trouble. Literally the day after I cut up my very last credit card, my brain decided it was time for me to die.

I had been feeling some sort of powerful panic building in my chest for days beforehand, and this was nothing new, as I have so many disorders and complexes that they have organized and ganged up on each other, leaving my brain to function rather normally. The sheer amount of time it had been going on was a bit odd, but still, anxiety is nothing new to me. I brushed it off, and went on with my life. On the morning in question, I awoke normally, yawned, started to get out of bed, and then my brain exploded. Suddenly, out of no where, I felt what was literally the worst pain I have ever felt. I thought absolutely for certain that something had pierced my brain, and I would die shortly. I decided it was time to fall down. After a little bit of time, I got to my feet, and stumbled to the bathroom. From there it become something of a blur. I know that I was convinced all I needed was a hot bath, and I know that at some point I must have texted my girlfriend, because very little time seemed to pass at all before it was midday, and she was there. By this point, the pain had subsided, but Catherine, who's mother is a nurse, had us both going in circles, and so she convinced me that the hospital was the correct answer.

"Hospital?" I scoffed. I had no insurance of any kind, you see, and the very idea struck me as laughable. "I'll be just fine." I was actually angry at Catherine for being worried, and when I realized that, I decided to let her take me. On the way is when the panic set in. Suddenly, I discovered that the left side of my face and left hand were going numb. The word came crashing into my head. I was convinced I was having a stroke. As we went in the first time, I was still reeling from the agony I had felt earlier in the day. As such, I have no idea if I dreamed some of this or if they were simple delirium, but I'm pretty sure that I had an Australian nurse. She might have been English or something, but honestly I'm not sure. The rest of that particular hospital trip was a blur. All I know is that at some point, they made me leave, with instructions to return if anything got worse. With that in mind, I went on my way.

Shortly thereafter, as it was Sunday, I made my way out to the middle of god damned nowhere for D&D, going through crazy-ass mood swings all the way. It was a surreal experience, to say the least. The next thing I remember for sure is yelling at a friend of mine for feeling sick enough to miss gaming. The logic there was that I "may have been currently having a stroke," so having a sickly stomach made little excuse not to show. I still stand by the logic, though honestly I don't get why I was quite so very angry. Unfortunately, by the time I reached gaming, I discovered that I was no longer making sense. In addition, my arm and face had gone completely numb. We turned right around, and headed straight back for the hospital. "Tell my story! I DIED TO PLAY D&D!" I bellowed. I felt that my death would not be in vain if I were to inspire someone to really COMMIT to a game.

Our second arrival was a little more frantic. By this time, it was officially night, and the emergency room was busy. Still, it was no time at all before I was in a room. I was unconcerned, watching Family Guy, when it happened. I had to get a spinal tap. I had very little hope that it would involve an amusing rock band, and way more to do with a four inch needle rammed into my spine. It was the second most agonizing experience of my life, after the pain that brought me there. Well, the third. I have seen Twilight, after all.

In any case, to speed things up a little, I'll skip the rest of the battery of tests, as well as the horrible night I spent drugged out of my mind at the hospital. Never having stayed in one before, it was awful, but I don't feel the need to elaborate on every detail. Perhaps another time. Long story short, the next day, I left the hospital with two things. One was a diagnosis of, "We don't know, a migraine maybe? Not a stroke. Probably. Just keep an eye on that." The other was a bill for six thousand dollars.

Six thousand dollars is a lot of money to someone who has no job. This was the final blow. I had to move back home. Luckily, my parents did little more than shake their heads and say, "You still have a key." Soon, I did what was necessary, and loaded the essentials into a truck, and returned to the room I grew up in. Of course, all my stuff was gone. It was now my Dad's guitar room. Just a room with three guitars. Pretty great mental image, that.

Well, I've officially stopped making sense. Time to call it for now. Tune in later for Part 2, or What Kyle Did This Week!