I thought I knew what I was going to write. For days now I thought I knew what I was going to write. Turns out I have no clue. I haven't been writing much, besides my daily 750 words.
I write about zombie's and a pink dress and onions.
Today I wrote about Africa and plastic surgery and Kate.
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I'm still here, muddling along. I've had a decent Christmas vacation. Some weeks were worse then others. Last week was pretty bad, this week is pretty decent. I guess that's how it works.
I watched Les Mis over break, and started - and finished - The Perks of Being a Wallflower. I drank tea and baked some muffins and took pictures and drank tea and watched Grey's Anatomy.
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On Thursday it will have been 4 months since I got diagnosed. Is that crazy? Is that only crazy to me? It feels like not that long ago. It feels like it wasn't that long ago that it was November 2008 and I just woke up from a coma.
I feel like I should be able to deal with this better. I should be happy and grateful and living life. And I am happy and grateful and living life. But I'm also sad and scared and grieving. I never expected to be sad and scared and grieving. I was supposed to have this all figured out. I'm supposed to know what's going on. But I don't.
It's not what I thought it would be. Getting diagnosed wasn't just getting answers. It was death and birth all rolled into one. It was being forced to stop running and try to come to terms with everything I've been hiding from since November 2008. It's whispering into the dark, "Hey, something happened to me and it was awful and tragic and it's not ok," Even though during the day I find myself constantly saying, "I'm ok."
Getting diagnosed wasn't just life, a birth, it was death too. And I'm still learning how to grieve that.
I'm getting there, though. I'm trying.
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On good days I can see peace, a clearing, hope. I would go through all this pain all over again for the honor of bearing witness to these chronic illnesses that have changed my life so much, my horror and my wonder combined.