Most Days

It seems like every time I post/say/THINK anything remotely depressed-sounding, I am blasted to smithereens by very well-meaning people giving me encouragement and light. Like, I have to be cheered up at all costs. But I don’t need it,usually. And when I do need it, I will say so. Lest you guys get some idea of me drowning in my own misery as I die slowly, let me explain something.

Most days, I’m good. Great, even. Most days I don’t even THINK about my disease, I don’t think about the ugly implications of my staggered walk. And when I think of the future on those days, it’s not a bad place to be. I’m a naturally upbeat person, and it’s easy to be in good cheer. I take the greatest of pleasures in the stupidest things, and that keeps me going. Life is good, everything’s great.

Some days, I am aware of my illness. Maybe it’s particularly hard to walk that day. Maybe I’m suffering from an overdraft of spoons from the day before. Maybe I have a doctor appointment that day. For whatever reason, I am aware of my disease and the limitations it puts on me. But on those days, even when I am aware of this disease cutting my life short as I breathe, I’m still good. My disease is present but it’s not really a problem. I have a realistic idea of what’s coming, but I have security in the knowledge that I have the best team in the world at my back. I can handle this. I can handle everything. Life is okay. Everything’s good.

Every now and again, there’s a moment of panic. It’s usually on the tail end of circumstances conspiring against me, for whatever reasons. My defenses are low. I am a bit “squishy”, as I call it. Just ..sensitive and prone to cry and things seem a little dark, maybe. And then there’s that moment it turns, and everything collapses in on itself and I am crushed under the weight of it all. These days are very rare. But they are inevitable. I’ve got a terminal fucking disease. If I didn’t sink under the weight of how badly I’m being fucked over occasionally, it’s likely I’m just in denial.

Things have been conspiring. I lost my 19 year old cat and just turned in his unused pain medication to my vet, so that someone else who can’t afford it can give their pet some pain relief. I’ve been GO GO GO the last few days and I’m exhausted. There was a screwup with the post office which made them think my house was vacant and that really, really fucked with me because it was a reminder that I don’t get to stay here. The motherfucking shingles. NOTHING seems good when you’re in pain. I’m kind of freaking out about money; I’m about a grand in to my credit card, with a $3k property tax bill going to come due at the end of the year and then January resets my $2k deductible and I’m supposed to go to Europe and I’ve got nothing to spend and…yeah. I feel like I’m financially drowning.

And then this video was shown to me this morning:

It’s…really fucking powerful. Stay past the bikini babe. It’s worth your time. And it left me really raw. And I talked to my brother about putting in a hand rail because I’m beginning to need both hands to haul myself up the stairs, and it hurt. I thought about having to throw all of my things in boxes and maybe not having the strength to unpack them by the time I bought a new place and I panicked.

Tonight I’m tired. And in pain. And lonely. And afraid. And worried. And weak. And angry. And depressed. And really fucking unsure where it all goes from here. And tonight I know there’s not a goddamned thing I can do about any of it.

Tomorrow I will be fine, but I am having a bad night.

And nothing will fix this. No amount of being told it’s going to be alright will MAKE it alright. And nothing will help except to let myself cry.

And so I lock myself away from the world, and I cry.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *