Have you ever used a transdermal patch? It’s like a George Foreman grill for the body: Set it and forget it! When you slap on one of those babies, you can passively self-medicate for hours or even days without a second thought.

If you’re not familiar with them, here’s how they work…gluey plastic patches, laced with substances (medications, hormones, vitamins, etc.) slowly release their contents through the skin and into the bloodstream. You can patch it and forget it.

I have had two experiences with transdermal patches. The first was 10 years ago; I bought nicotine patches to help me quit smoking. The warning label was very specific about two things. First, users are strongly cautioned against smoking while wearing the patch. Second, users’ sleep might be “disrupted” by wearing the patch to bed. However, this could be avoided by removing the patch at night and reapplying it in the morning. Hmm, I wondered. What’s that all about?

NIGHTMARES! That’s what. The first night, I dreamt that I was on a chain gang working the coal mines. There I was, shuffling along, covered in soot, chipping away in the gloomy, soul-sucking blackness. But that wasn’t the scary part. In the dream, the light from my miner’s cap revealed that I was smoking! The directions clearly stated that you must not smoke while wearing the patch. As an obsessive rule follower, this transgression made me more upset than being forced to labor in a dark and toxic mine shaft, shackled to the dregs of society.

Never one to give up easily, and not wanting to take my patch off (lest it not work as well), I wore it to bed on the second night. Also, I am stubborn and sometimes not too bright. This time, my dream turned me into a remorseless monster. I stood over the dead body of a complete stranger, a smoking gun in my hand. “Dream me” didn’t feel one bit sorry that I’d taken a human life. But I was all in a tizzy over flouting the rules again; a cigarette dangled from my gun-moll lips. I awoke in a panic. What a relief to discover that I hadn’t actually smoked. Oh yeah, I was also glad I hadn’t actually killed anybody.

For the record, the patch worked for me, and I successfully kicked the habit.

My second encounter with patches is much more personal, but I will share it, because we are friends…

As we all know, there comes a time in a woman’s life when things begin to change. The medical community calls this menopause. Women have other names for it: mean-o-pause (because the mood swings are swift and legendary), men-on-pause (because the only thing less interesting than sex would be sitting through a Steven Seagal film retrospective), mental-pause (because you find yourself staring into an open refrigerator until you remember you’re looking for paper towels). Me? I called it total and utter living hell (no explanation necessary).

I was still in my 30’s when the process began, so none of my friends could relate. Some actually thought it was funny, while others suggested I was exaggerating my symptoms. Well, now they are all relating (not so funny anymore, is it ladies?). The hormone replacement patch was the best thing I did for myself (way better than cranking up the air conditioning in December or storing my jewelry in the freezer until it was time to wear it). Those little sticky squares saved me from going off the deep end. By the time I stopped using them, the worst was over. The patch had gotten me through the hardest part.

That made me think, what if there were patches for getting over other hard parts of life? Break ups. The first year of marriage. Your children’s teenage years.

Those patches don’t exist, but there’s always duct tape.

So, when someone breaks your heart, you can maintain a healthy weight (by taping your refrigerator shut to prevent eating raw cookie dough in your pajamas at noon). Or use it to maintain positive self-esteem (by covering the buttons on your smartphone. You won’t be able to obsessively stalk your ex on Facebook or drunk dial). When your teens turn on the sassy backtalk or complain about nothing to eat in the house, you can patch out (by placing tape over your ears). And that first year of marriage? What can stop you from saying things you don’t mean, while your buttons are being pushed or your last nerve is being pinched? Yup…duct tape. And you know where to put it.

My biggest decision of the morning had been wether to wear the Saint Christopher braclet my dad had given me for Christmas or not. He gave it to me for safe travels. We’re not religious, but it’s the idea behind it that counts. By the time we crossed the bridge heading out of Phuket I was starting to get sore from sitting on the back of our 125cc scooter. I would be on the back the whole trip due to the fact that I’m scared to drive on highways, and also because Justin doesn’t enjoy being a passenger. My wrist was bugging me a fair amount too from the charm waving in the wind and rubbing against my skin. I almost took it off, then I got thinking. ‘This is good luck, you don’t take off a good luck charm. If I do will that give me bad luck?’ After some internal deliberation I decided I should keep it on.We were cruising along at about 100km per hour and making good time. We would be at the Ranong boarder crossing to Myanmar in a couple more hours.We were stuck behind 2 trucks that were going a bit to slow for our liking. We sped up and moved onto the left shoulder of the road. Sped up to 90...100.There was no noise, no warning. Justin was losing control of the bike. The back tire was swerving. He tried to regain control because he thought we had gotten caught on the white line causing the wheel to get out of line with the rest of the bike. With the 2 trucks beside us going 100 km on the shoulder of the road Justin was able to bring us to a stop. Some how without falling or crashing.Not dieing on the side of the road in southern Thailand was a lucky break for sure. Now however, we were stranded with a completely flat tire. there was one town 30 or so kilometers behind us and we had no idea how far ahead to the next town. I was shaking and my heart was pounding. ‘Great’ I thought, ‘now I’m going to have a panic attack.’ My mouth was drying out and I was getting dizzy. I needed to focus. I turned all my attention to Justin he was in shock that we hadn’t just died. While he was staring off into space I rubbed his back and offered him a cigarette. After accepting it enthusiastically he started to calm down, as did I.I started looking up and down the highway to see if there was anything. I knew there wasn’t but it was instinctual to check. Then I looked directly across the street from where we were stuck and said, “Maybe they fix bikes.”The yard had a bunch of bikes in it and there were people sitting out front. We had nothing to lose by walking over and asking. A middle aged Thai man got his son to talk to us because he had slightly better English. We explained what happend. When they told us they could fix it Justin and I were both relived. The father and his son started taking apart the bike in order to get the wheel off, while I sat there wondering how long it would take and how much it would cost.A little boy came running out. He can’t have been much older than 3 and he wanted to help. The older son pulled the popped tube out of the tire. It wasn’t just popped, it was completely exploded. He had to pull it out in pieces. The youngest boy took the new tube out of the package and handed it to his big brother. He looked so proud of himself for helping.Not only did they fix our tire, they also filled our front tire, tightend our breaks and cleaned our mirrors. I had been expecting we would be there for at least an hour and that it would cost around 800-1000baht. It took them half an hour and they only charged us 180baht.We gave them 300. When we handed it to the boy and walked away without our change his smile grew quickly. It was nice to see and feel that we were the reason for that smile.Back on the road we were both in shock for quite a while. I don’t know what Justin was thinking, but I couldn’t help but think ‘what if I hadn’t been wearing my lucky braclet.’

I haven’t written anything meaningful in a long time. I’m not even sure I can anymore. Sitting here in my room, alone for the first time in a long while, and sleep eludes me.

I’ve always had a way that I try to live my life. I try not to regret things, just take shit as it comes and move on. But who the fuck am I kidding, trying to be fucking tough. I’m broken and fragile and SCAREDSCAREDSCARED and feeling way too many things I don’t want to feel.

Today was the first time in a long time that I’ve lost my self-control and just let my emotions take over. It was almost like I was just watching myself from outside my body, cursing, screaming; letting carnal urges and emotions take over and just shutting down and letting go.

Break. Break. Break. Broken. I broke today. I told myself a long time ago I would never break, never falter, always be in control, but as much as you holler and damn the sun, there will always be a dawn. Cue the sun. Cue the moon.

Cue fucking tomorrow.

I don’t know how to feel about my life, or you, or me. I just want to be Jack in that goddamn fairytale, fall fall fall fall fall fall break whatever the fuck a crown is, break everything else, to match this goddamn heart of mine. Then Jill would come tumbling down right after.

Yeah, fucking right.

Jill would point and laugh as I fall down that fucking hill, and probably leave me for dead. Off to go fuck Peter Pan or some other fairytale figure that isn’t a fucking dumb-shit that fall down hills.

Are you my Jill I wonder? My pill-popping, imperfect salvation? Cigarette in one hand and my heart in the other. Bring me back to life dammit, I want mouth-to-mouth with smoke and tar and cancer and barely enough oxygen to bring me back from the rusted gates of the forgotten.

Life’s not a fucking fairytale sadly. Just broken girls, broken boys, looking for ways to fill that hole which was there as long as you can remember. I always find it odd and slightly funny that no one ever remembers when they lost whatever occupied that god-forsaken hole.

Drugs, sex, whatever works. Just fill it, satisfy it, feed it. I want to be whole again. I want to be whole. Please. I want to be whole, one last time.

The amphetamines are my sanity, my psychosis, my muse. The cigarettes are my lonely cane, each burning away as it holds me steady for a fleeting moment until it’s discarded and replaced. The painkillers kill. Killkillkillkill and I love it. And the benzos keep my demons locked away.

But alas, I’ve emptied this carcass I call a mind, and no more insight comes. Not like any ever has anyway.

The world will tell you no. The world will tell you “FUCK YOU. NO. YOU FUCKING STUPID PIECE OF SHIT.” But fuck the world. Fuck my duct-tape ridden heart. Fuck whores and drugs and stupid fucking hills. Fuck being broken.

Fuck you world. I’m alive you arrogant shit, alive and I’m a life. Everyone matters, because if you’re here right now on this earth reading this, you have a purpose. So don’t squander your goddamn life, live it.

Purposeless stream-of-consciousness. Sick and tired of being sick and tired.

'till dawn, world.

I remember lying awake that night. I remember feeling the silence as hundreds of other people were lying awake with me, wondering. Wondering about tomorrow. I was scared and so were they. Some people are afraid of snakes or heights, but that's not what's scary. It's the unknown. Staring into the pit and wondering about the bottom. Is there a net or my doom? That's what's scary. Tomorrow. Would it be my ruin or a new beginning?

But what if tomorrow never came? What if the you you are now is what you're stuck with? Would you be happy? I wouldn't. There are to many I "should've"'s in life. I should've stood up to them. I should've kissed her. I should've told them the truth. I should've told him I loved him one more time. We make our choices knowing that we have another chance tomorrow. Tomorrow. But what if we knew? What if we knew that today was all there was and the world ended tomorrow? It would be our chance to really live. To really change and fix the I "should've"'s.

Twenty-four hours is a short time compared to the expanse of human life, but what if that was all there was? One day. What would you do with one day?