Thursday, February 19, 2009

I'm sick again, and I don't know why.

I don't understand what's happening. My body is revolting, but there is nothing for it to be revolting against - except the weather, of course. I've been taking good care of myself: paying close attention to what I'm eating, drinking more water, at least trying to keep reigned in the amount of stress I allow work to put on me. And yet, I am relatively sure that I've been in a fairly steady decline since the summer.

I call not fair. Not fair, of course, doesn't mean anything. What's fair about having an unpredictable invisible untreatable illness in the first place? What's fair about all of the people who are far sicker than I am? Nothing. But there's a point at which I just want to stamp my feet and pout, as if it's the same as someone cheating at a board game or cutting in line. Alas, no.

It's just that it seems like I'm playing by the rules. And it seems like that should count for something. I'm doing what I'm supposed to to keep myself as healthy as I can be. It's just not working anymore. Pain is one thing; pain I can handle. I can handle the fatigue too, and the not being able to digest things properly. What's really got me upset is that it's reached a point where I'm having a pretty hard time doing what I need to do to get through a normal day - and it seems to be staying there. This is exactly what I've been fighting for fourteen years, and right now I'm losing.

I've decided not to try to make it in to work tomorrow. I knew it was going to be difficult - after a daring 20 minute walk my foot has flared up again, which means no more walking, which means two very crowded trains at the most intense rush hour of the day with not even a short walk up to the less crowded station to save me. And then I checked the weather, and saw that tomorrow morning it will be 24 degrees with 22 mile per hour winds making it feel like 13 degrees.

Frankly, I just can't fucking do it.

I've always sort of known this day would come - I guess I just thought it would be a lot farther down the road. Middle-age, perhaps. Not 31, for the love of god. It's never now, is it?

I know, I know, I'm jumping to conclusions. I could be fine by Saturday. But I could also be worse by Saturday.

That knowledge sits like a heavy stone upon my chest, making it hard to breathe. I am afraid to go to sleep.

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