mintcar

Today's another day when unhappiness is the word. Every hour before getting my lab results is nerves in anticipation of another bad lab result, and not being able to cope with the possibility that this one could be the one -- the big one -- that sends me to the hospital. No, you can't count on judging your own symptoms; the lab results judge your fate.

And back at home, at the end of the day, after an exceeding exhausting few months, exceptionally stressful and exceptionally momentous, I type in my lab results into this spreadsheet on google docs that helps me track my numbers, while I visualize graphs in my head, trying to chronologize when I was most healthy within this continuum of illness. The numbers say my body has held precariously in the zone preceding true remission and, wavering nervously, is always ready to get worse fast. It keeps me in constant fear.

It's a night that should be soothed with a glass of liquour, but I can't drink. I would have gone out to eat something rich, but I can't eat. Maybe friends could be company, but I am too tired to leave the house and would be exhausted pretending to be in good spirits while lifting lead. I can't attend to anyone else because I am too overwhelmed keeping myself from falling. I wish for these pleasures but there's no way my body can take them. I am disabled. I don't need push myself harder. So what is there to do? Only resting and taking care of myself makes things better.

Work has rewarded me tremendously, but it has taken all my energy away from the things that make me happiest: feeling healthy and having time to spend and care with my loved ones; enjoying the fruits. No dream, no matter how attainable, deserves to be given those parts of my life. I'm taking them back.