One thing that I scared the most, especially when I was far away from home is: being sick. I hate being sick. When I was younger I got easily sick, I knew how it feels not to be able to do many things because you have to stay in bed. I knew how it feels to wake up at night to take a sip of cough syrup or worse: antibiotic powder. It sucks. That’s why I don’t like being sick.
What make it worse, when you’re sick and you’re away from home, you will start to feel that your misery is doubled. No one is going to take you to the doctor, or make you hot delicious (although you won’t be able to taste it when you’re really sick) chicken soup, or remind you when to take the pills. You will start to become a little bit (or much) more emotional, and you will probably do or demand emotional things. You will be a little bit (or much) needy, clingy, annoyingly needy and clingy. You even want someone who would stay up all night just to hold your hand…
Hush now! It wasn’t me talking. It was the sickness…
I hate being sick. I hate being sick and away from people that I care about. It is not a homesickness… It was the flu that makes it like I am being homesick. I don’t miss anything back home, I just… Sick.
2003, the first three months of my freedom, I fell sick because of the heavy study workload. I got a really high fever, and heavy flu, I couldn’t move from my bed, even to play solitaire in my computer (you can imagine how bad the flu was). I cried when the headache came at night, not because of the severe pain, nor the homesickness. I just wish I wasn’t there at my room alone. I was thinking life would be better if I wasn’t alone (and I was wrong).
There’s a reason why a sick person isn’t allowed to testify, or do an IQ test. A sick person has a sick brain, and a sick brain usually comes out with a sick idea. A sick idea sucks most of the time.
I hate being sick because even if my brain is alcohol-proof, but it is not sick-proof. When I got sick, my brain started to think about stupid things. And, you know how I hate being stupid, don’t you?
From the death-bed of the sick girl,