nine lives are for cats.

It's 4:56 AM and I'm under anesthesia.
I'm dead, I'm sleeping, I'm daydreaming, I'm lying, I'm lost.
I fall alseep; I wake up.
It's 5:03 AM and I'm positive it is a bright white light I'm staring into.
I'm blind, I'm deaf, I'm paralyzed, I'm brain dead, I'm spinning.
I'm lying in an unfamiliar room with the familiar sound of nothing ringing in my ears. I wake up; I fall alseep.
It's 6:07 AM and my eyes are open wide staring into darkness. I am unaware of when my line of sight ends and the ceiling begins. I'm positive it's a ceiling that would be ending this line of sight. For a moment, I am alert.
Hello, my name is borderline narcoleptic.
My heart is drowning in adrenaline; thumping in and out of some crazily named fluid being spread through by body by a tiny IV. I'm drained; I'm full.
Hello, my name is cardiac arrest.
Morphine gives up. My stomach burns, plastic blankets wrinkle, stictches itch, my throat is dry, my body is weak.
Hello, my name is stomach pump.
My sense align but my vision remains blurred. A beeping rings from behind this bed. I'm lying in the middle of a colorless white room with beeping machine with numbers and heart rates and measurements. Cold sweat races down my forehead in anxiety. My hand reaches to wash the apprehension away; an IV tugs at my hand. An IV bag is dripping rythmically.
"Hello, my name is Dr. Cadwell."
I whip my neck towards the sound of another human voice. My thorat burns with the inability to speak. He puts his finger to his lips, gesturing for me to remain quiet; not that I could speak. I would love to ask him why the feeling of this IV up my forearm is so familiar.
I do not remember him, but the sound of his name screams that I should.
Hello, my name is jamais vu.
He hands me paperword to read. The sensation of feeling is returning to my numb fingertips. The stack of papers feels cold and heavy in my grasp.
Hello, my name is the truth.
I read the medical records in my hands; my eighth stomach pump in this year alone. It is only May. That fact are circled in red ink. My therapy programs circled in purple; all ten of them- all ten of them stating how I stopped showing up after a "fourth step".
Hello, my name is alcoholism.
He is concerned and irratated. I'm not going to die, but it feels like the only option. The shock of the situation and the stinging of the words on these papers feel routine to me. They state that I have obviously been here before, that I know him, and that I know this situation all too well. My memory feels blank. Unfortunatly as my doctor, he knows all of this and to be frank, he knows more about me than I know about myself.
Hello, my name is Anna Leigh. To the nurses I'm Anna Alcoholism. To my friends I'm Anna. To my disapointed father I'm Anna Leigh (insert sarcastic tone here). I have been drinking since I was sixteen. Before that I was straightedge. Before that I didn't know the difference between a martini and a really nice Italian sports car. I'm twenty-four now. I have been to three therapists and ten therapy programs. It is all clearly written out for me under the "description" section. My doctor knows me, my nurses know me, my friends know me, and my paperwork knows me. I know myself- I just refuse to accept it.
I fall asleep. I wake up. The burning sensation in my throat is gone. I'm sitting up straight. The IV is still dripping into my arm. The doctor is leaning against the wall patiently.
It's 8:47 AM and I tell the doctor to kill me or fix me.
He tells me death is an escape now an option.
I sigh, call me crazy, but that paperwork says I have been here eight times. I must be sleeping. I must be dreaming. This must be a nightmare. I must be sleepwalking. I'm dreaming a lie. I'm living the truth. I tell the doctor to kill me.
He tells me we've tried that seven times.
I do not remember dying.
"Do you remember falling asleep?"
I do not remember waking up.
"Wake up Anna."
I zone in; I zone out. I fall asleep; I wake up. I die; I am brought back to life. I am broken; I am fixed. I am living a cycle. I don't remember falling asleep. I don't remember waking up. I pull the IV from my arm.
I remember the familiar feeling of nothing.
Hello, my name is coma.