From one end of the United States to the other. It’s one thing to take a trip and know you’re going home later; it’s another thing to make that trip knowing you’re not going back. Home wasn’t where I left; it wasn’t where I was going either. In a sense, I was going to find myself, to get control over my life so I could figure out where my home was supposed to be.

The first month of my time living at my father’s was good. I still hadn’t really figured out why I kept trying to continue living, but it was a lot easier for me to keep going. In retrospect, of course it was—it wasn’t the same room I grew up in, in the same state I grew up in and formed so many bad habits. I had a change of scenery, I even had a possible job lead. My father and I had several heart-to-hearts, talking about what my goals were, and starting to broach the fact that he had all but actually abandoned me as a child. Another one of those elephants in the room that only keep getting bigger until you actually talk about it.

Things got…interesting as time went on. I finally worked up the nerve to go get a physical, fully expecting to find out that I had cancer, or that my heart’s actually rotted away. Maybe I’d have an aneurysm in the waiting room?

The only problem I had were elevated liver enzymes. I figured that was great—the enzyme problem was manageable, and I didn’t even have high blood pressure despite eating actual garbage several times over the past year, and having years of eating the full fruits of cajun soul food before that. You know why it’s called soul food? Because only human souls can actually handle eating it. Definitely not our bodies, with such vulnerable arteries and heart valves.

Anyway, several days later I had the worst back pain of my life. I tried soaking in the tub, only to feel both sick to my stomach and like I had someone trying to jerk my spinal cords off. It was worse than the time when I was 19, and had a pilonidal cyst so bad that it was like a second asshole. At least then I got it cut out, and got to lay in bed for three weeks while playing World of Warcraft and binge watching the Matrix trilogy while on a constant stream of Vicodin. To this day, I hold all three Matrix movies as sublime, perfect even—and I will never rewatch them to discover the sobering truth.

But I digress. I managed to pull myself out of the tub, and limp to the master bedroom. I told my Dad and my second stepmom that I was feeling real bad. I asked if either of them could drive me to the nearby hospital, and because they really make an effort to be good parents, they agreed even though it was 5AM.

I puke straight bile when I get there. Then I find out after hours of waiting and testing that I’m being admitted, because I have a case of gallstones so bad that I’m schedule for gallbladder removal surgery ASAP. So much for ‘in good health.’

I stayed in the hospital for a week, with my surgery scheduled for six weeks from then. I didn’t eat for a week; I didn’t drink for almost four days. An IV drip and daytime game shows was all I had for sustenance; to sleep, I’d listen to an audiobook of Physics for Future Presidents over and over. Dr. Mueller, Mr. Larkin, I thank you both for joining forces to make a product that’s both engaging to listen to, and soothing enough to fall asleep to. The only audiobook for that purpose I’d rate higher is A Promised Land by Barack Obama, but it does suffer from being too engaging. Charismatic Presidents are the hardest to sleep to.

After I was discharged from the hospital, I ate nothing but low sodium cans of Campbell’s gumbo. As a native son of the south, it should’ve been hell on earth. But my palate had reset entirely from a week of no food, so that bland anti-gumbo was ambrosia. My shrunken stomach meant that a single can filled me up. I probably lost a pound a day over the following month—right up until my gallstones flared up again and I was back in the hospital for another week, this time because I also was severely dehydrated. They opted to move my surgery up to the end of that week, since it was obvious all of my suicidal tendencies had gathered in my gallbladder and there was no good samaritan to talk it down from pulling the trigger.

This seems as good a place as any to add an aside: I’m fond of Allie Brosh’s Hyperbole and a Half blog/book. Her art is endearingly sloppy, and her prose is both absurd and satisfyingly succinct. If I had even that level of artistic talent, I would make a sketch of a slightly whimsical, yet too-accurate gallbladder using its tubes to hold a revolver under its chin while shouting at dollar-store Osmosis Jones to stay back. Instead, this is the best I can do:

I don’t know why he’s asian. Anyway, the surgery went flawlessly, not at all like how the poor souls in the previous century had to do it. I got a tiny scar, not my whole stomach cut open. I didn’t have to drink my own bile nor did I have a long recovery time. Even though this health crisis was averted however, I still had the larger problem of still not having a plan for life, or a way to provide for myself.