The Thick of It All
in the thick of the pain (the smashing of hands into walls, the vomiting from its intensity, the dealing of what is utterly unfixable)…
i must remember what makes me whole.
i don’t have a choice when it comes to this life.
i have been doing this a long time.
i sometimes wonder if i’d be happier without all this––these twice monthly bouts of ulcers and the nasty side effects of prednisone—
and i find the answer is a simple no.
if i did not know this pain,
if i had not known it my entire life,
i would not appreciate the things that the healthy do not.
i would be annoyed more easily.
i would hate more.
the joy i see
because of what i don’t get to see…
it makes me whole.
i am not grateful for this disease, no.
but i am grateful to have this perspective. to have earned it.
i am proud that i am not bitter anymore.
On Not Sleeping
I have not been able to get out of bed since August.
I’ve had insomnia for years, and fatigue forever, but it was August when I stopped working full time and have consequently fallen into this hazy, open space. Freelancing allows for my situation; for that I am grateful.
But I am still searching for the reason I have been so tired lately, so needy for my bed that when I am out and away from it, living, I fantasize about the sleep I so rarely get.
I suppose it started with the medicines I take, how awful the prednisone is. It certainly has to do with my illness, how so much of my time in bed is spent rocking back and forth in silent pain. It has to do with how much water I drink and how that lends itself to waking from a dream to pee and then padding, barefood, back to my bed, where the dim light of my computer on the bedstand appeals to me, if only just to check the time.
But once the glow has captured me, my brain repsonds to the light and I have checked Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr, nymag.com, the Times and looked at an entire photo album of a long-forgotten friend’s baby. I am tempted to leave comments here, at this time, 4 in the morning. I ‘like’ things instead, my brain fully jolted awake but my fingers unwilling to type, to write, to make use of this time.
So many of my nights lay in this vast wasteland of time that does not really seem to matter or count because I am not doing much. I read sometimes, articles and beautifully rendered essays recommended by the writers and friends on Twitter. I have at least ten open tabs with stories willing to be read, but most of the time I am too tired to do that.
It is easier to click like than it is to comment and it’s easier to watch three hours of 30 Rock than it is to read something I should read, because it is right and plus, everyone else has.
My days are lost too, now. I sleep but not until the morning sun has invaded my room, lighting up my bed, its tangled sheets proof of my kicking and flailing in my sleep. The pain is easier in my sleep, but it all leads to here, this consciousness that does not fade until seven or eight am. And so I sleep until mid-afternoon.
I’ve been called lazy but this is not just laziness, not all of the time. I wish it was just that, because that, perhaps, is easier to fix.
But I am sick, and I have proof of that to show you, if you wish. I don’t want to show anyone, or explain blood tests and what having lupus and missing a thyroid will do to you. I’m tired of explaining this to people who should know better, and I’m tired of not being the person I want to be, the person who reads more and drinks in moderation. The person who somehow says less and in doing that, says more. I want to be her, the best version of me, the me I am sure is possible, with some coffee and some self-awareness…
But first, I’d really like some sleep.
How Astrology Ruins Lives and More
A few years ago, my mom was given an astrology book entitled The Secret Language of Birthdays. I have never subscribed to astrology before in my life; in fact, before I met a Cancer, I had no idea that Aquariuses are evil, cold people that prey on those poor Cancer chumps for fun. (I still object to this.)
However, this large bound volume of truth provided to be startlingly correct when I looked up my birthday. (February 16, 1986). The hints about my personality laid on on the page frankly astounded me. Please, see if you agree:
According to this book, if you were born on February 16…
· You must be careful to be healthy because your body’s ill-equipped to handle chronic disorders (Oh heeeeeeey, lupus! Fancy seeing you here!)
· Those born on 2/16 possess few useless strengths. Mine include my spirited, life-oriented and spontaneous nature. I’d agree to the truthfulness of this statement. Let us recall how I went to Europe on a dollar and a dream…and a slight willingness to prostitute myself.
· 2/16-ers unfortunately also have a few glaring weaknesses. According to this warped Bible of sorts, I’m abrupt, troubled, and eruptive. (This, um, rings a bell. I didn’t get the nickname Relationship Wrecking Ball for nothing.)
· Also according to the book, those born on this date dislike measured or plodding behavior and are awful with finances. I object! This is totally not me, not at all. Wait, BRB, my bank card just bounced at Dairy Queen.
· Finally, at the end of the summary, the book provides a meditation for you to live by. Mine? Death is as essential to life as life itself. Oh boy! How happy and cheery! Let’s throw a goddamn party! In fact, let’s make it a funeral party. FOR MYSELF.
So, that pretty much seals it up. The Birthday Book of Genius nailed it: I’m a goner.
Hopefully, I’ll see you all at my funeral. Be sure to bring Hanson memorabilia and blast MMMBop as a bevy of funeral girls carry my ashes down the aisle*.
*What? I’m clearly not living long enough to get a wedding! Funeral girls will just have to do!
I had cancer once.
So they gave me these anti-nausea drugs.
And three years later, I come home from a night out.
And I take them for the ineveitable hangover.
And I feel like shit. Like I’ve taken advantage, that my whole life is taking advantage of something I still don’t understand.
Isn’t that something?
