11:54 a.m. - 10/13/03
unjust injury...
"Hey, missy," says Mom, just now, without the slightest bit of condescension in her tone, "are you upset with me?"
No. Truly no. For once in my life, I am not at all upset with you. I'm upset with myself. I'm upset with how tired I am all the time. I'm upset with the depression and most of all with scasid, with the eating disorder and the anxiety. I'm upset that for the second day in a row, I've asked to do something, heard some options, and retracted my desire. I can't go out in the world. I can't go eat. Living off of safe foods, like I never do, and the grocery workers are on strike, and we've run out of yogurt.
I'm not mad at her. I'm just sick of feeling too well to feel sick. And it's not the well part I want to change. I'm sick of the illness that creeps in again and again and again. As if it knows it can't have my life again, but it's hellbent on monopolizing my days. It can't kill me, but it won't let me live. And that's bullshit; I live anyway. But I feel self-piteous right now, with a touch of furious for flavor. I work so hard every day, and I make such progress, and I have such pride...and still it can come back, come back, come back.
I just want to kick it out of my head for once, for always, for good. I don't want to worry about things that don't matter ever again. My life is enough. The trials of life are enough. I don't need this, anymore, and when I'm doing everything I can to keep from having it, its presence stings. It stings.
It's been so long and will be longer...and that's hard.
chord
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