I’ve been having a pretty pressing health issue this past week and I feel like such a burden on my parents.
Taking me to and from the hospital, making me special meals, making sure I’m okay.
I hate this. I hate that I’m 24 and I’m still a burden, and I hate that I’m 24 and I’m already such a health mess when I see everyone around me fucking up and making bad decisions and they don’t have these kind of issues at all.
I hate that I can’t breathe right, or sit right, or walk upright, I hate that I’m hurting almost every minute of every day except when I’m asleep, I hate that I don’t know how I’m gonna go to work and do my job while I’m waiting for this crisis to go away and while I’m waiting for my surgery.
I hate that small pleasures one usually takes for granted like eating a croissant, working out, or even sleeping in any position one likes are things that are barred from me for an undetermined period of time.
I hate that the pain weighing my skeleton down. I hate feeling myself losing weight I need, and seeing myself lose all the progress my muscles had made this past year. This is not me. This is not my happy body.
I hate hearing myself cry and whimper and knowing my parents are hearing me too.
I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.
But I’m also grateful. For my parents. For my family looking out for me.
For the ability to feel relief in those brief moments when the pain is gone. For the ability to truly appreciate for the first time the pleasure of taking a bite out of solid food after almost an entire day of fasting, either because of blood work I had to do or because I was feeling too nauseous to eat.
I’ve been dreaming and listing all the food I want to eat when I get better, all the projects I want to work on, all the exercise I’m gonna do to get back in shape, all the things I want to appreciate with the awareness of someone that has been without them.
Every time I walk past a pastry shop now, I take pleasure by proxy in the smells and the colors and the sigh of other people eating, and I know it’s such a silly silly thing, it probably even sounds ridiculous in the grand scheme of things, but food, flavors and smells have always been such an important part of my life and now they’re on the other side of this glass that I can’t walk through, and it’s like I’m only just realizing the privilege it was to just buy a pastry or snack every now and then and indulge in it, and not being worried about m body turning on me or turning inside out.
I’m tired. I don’t know how long this particular crisis is going to last, and not knowing is probably the worst of it. I don’t have anything specific to tell my employers about whether I’ll be able to do my job next week, and I don’t have anything specific to tell me about whether I’ll be able to enjoy being alive next week, or next month, or next summer. I don’t know. And not knowing is killing me. I’m tired and in pain, and I don’t even know how write a decent text anymore. All I can do is wait.