Friday, June 24, 2005

   That's funny, I think.
You know... sometimes I get really tired of being a sick, deformed cripple. It's easy to feel ugly when you've got a half-caved in rib cage, scars and stretch marks even on your face and hands, and swollen marks on all your joints.

Today I caught myself reading beauty advice for cancer patients and taking notes. I stopped, shook my head, laughed it off. Then I realised that the some of the medication the makeup artists were talking about "compensating" for were familiar names to me.

Hydromorphone... Flexeril... CS Morphine... Prednisone...

Why the hell am I still alive?



It gets so easy to say, "What the hell, at least I don't have cancer." That is, until you realise that the only real difference might be the length of time you're stuck dealing with it.

I'm only 25. How many more nights are left in my life sentence? How many more beautiful sunrises, (observed because the morphine wore off early)? How many more purring kittens in my lap, (and fingers too tired to scratch them)? How many more hellos and goodbyes, and how many more bad haircuts --

And realising that what makes it a bad haircut is that it shows more of my face...




The internet is a beautiful release, I think.



I don't talk to people I know about this. It's humiliating, to be weak in body, but so much more so to be seen as 'not coping', 'having a tough time'. I'm coping. I will get through this. I always do. And I'll do it without pulling anyone down with me.

Unless, of course, someone reads my once-in-a-blue-moon "personal" topic rant. Which is beautifully concealed among all the millions of blogs, with their vast range of quality and topic. It's like hiding a leaf in a forest, or stapling a suicide note to a tax return.

The anonimity, and the unlikelyhood of being caught with my proverbial pants down, means that this is the shut-in's equivalent to screaming in an desolate forest: You don't really want anyone to come. Some things just need to be said.




So, for all your ugly days, for all your "these pants don't fit right" moments, for all your wondering if your boobs are too big, too small, too saggy, too there:

Screw it.



I'm only ... how old? It feels like a lifetime.




Hug the chibis for me... times like this I wish I could.
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