Part 1: Patterns

It's been six days since my collision and I've noticed some interesting patterns, in physical behavior and thought processes.

The first pattern is mornings. Every morning, I am dehydrated. Every minute movement of my leg results in several sharp pains in my knee. My mind is tired and my body is sore. I emphasize, every morning. My water bottle is always empty, and so, in this state, I must trudge to the sink, clumsily. It's easier on my leg if I use two crutches, but then I wouldn't be able to carry the water bottle. Once full, I return to my bed and take my pills. One Tylenol for nerve pain, one gabopentin for anxiety, one pill for still softening, and 5-10mg of oxycodone for pain relief, depending on how bad the pain is that morning. I set my timer for 6 hours and 8 hours, that is when I need to retake my Tylenol and gabopentin, respectively. After that, I wait for the oxycodone to kick in so that I am able to ascend my stairs.

I like to think of the stairs as a mountain. A tall and intimidating mass that must be climbed with careful intent. The more you climb that mountain, the less scary it is and the better you get at climbing it. If you have the mindset of "let's tackle the world," then this mountain is a molehill. But if you wake up and you feel like the world has left you here to rot and that you'd be better off dead, then that mountain is a cliff--insurmountable. How easy the stairs are is dependent on the mood of the climber.

Once I am up the stairs, I take whatever vitamin supplements are available, brush my teeth, and grab an energy drink. This is normally where I'd shower, if I were able. We just got the shower seat on Saturday and I was able to test it out yesterday morning, so that will be part of this pattern.

Next, I retreat downstairs carefully, as I now have to grip the energy drink, the rails, and my crutches all at once, with two hands.
I lay in bed and drink. I feel groggy and disgusting, I have little pains and aches. What I do for the rest of the day is entirely dependent on what I have to do, that is, on my phone. There is no pattern for the rest of my day physiologically.

However, there is a mental pattern. Once I wash off and the meds kick in, I can think clearly. I often replay the crash in my mind. I think about what I'm going to say to the impound lot employees, I think about what I would say in court, should it ever come to that. I think about what I would say to people who think it's so stupid that I'm more concerned about my motorcycle than my own wellbeing. I think about drawing the crash as a comic, each panel sketched perfectly in my mind.

I think about the day I will see Sarah again, I think about the day I will buy my next bike, and I think about riding again.

These passionate thoughts occur frequently throughout the day.

Part 2: Dysmorphia

How often do you look at your body? When you do, do you feel like those parts are you? Recently, that answer is no. I see the cut on my left leg and the brace on the other, the ache in my left arm, and the bruise on my testicles, and I think, "well, these can't be my parts. This isn't me. No, I am able to walk. I can ride, I can jump and walk up stairs. These aren't mine."

I see my crutches, my sock aid, my grabber, my broken computer, the extra blankets, and my empty garage and it feels like I'm on another planet. No, this isn't me. I can walk and ride. Sarah was right here.

I see my bloodstained helmet, there should be a visit on it. I check my pockets, there should be keys in there.

Just tonight, I looked down, and saw my brace as a tumor, sucking my life away. I moved my knee inside it, trying to break free.

I cry every day. I think of Sarah and the joy she brought me. I think of the bond I had with her.

Crash, whoosh, slam. You know what the first I said after I hit the asphalt? I opened my eyes and looked for Sarah. I saw her smashed up. "No, no, no, no!" This can't be happening to me. This isn't my life. This was a beautiful day. This was my commute to class. Where did it go?!

I don't know what can fix this. Money can replace what was broken; what was taken from me. But it can't erase this trauma from my being.

Part 3: Passion

What offends me is when people say "you can replace the bike, but you can't replace your life." Fuck you.

Sarah isn't some machine. She's my passion, she's something I can rely on no matter what. She takes me places I could never go. She needs me to complete her. I put hours of work into her, and there were still many hours ahead. I want to ride her all day.

This is closest thing I've come to love. I love Sarah, not just because of what she does for me, but because of what I can do for her. It's hard to find a person who has been in her level.

I didn't lose a bike in that crash, I lost the love of my life. Now, she sits outside in some impound lot, cold and broken. Rained on. Mistreated. They're extorting her for me. They are fucking halfwits. They don't deserve to touch her.

She won't be the same. She may be dead. I saw her bleed out in front of me as I lay on that wet road. And all I could do was watch.

This is my pain. This is the nature of my existence as of late.