I typed a whole post. It was really good. But the internest hates me. So I'm replacing it with a crappy post. Sorry guys.
First, let's get caught up...
June:
Pancreatitis. (It's the most painful thing ever. No...really, ask your doctor.)
Mother Bitch of All Urinary Tract Infections. (Took six bags of IV antibiotics and three oral doses of anti-Bs to kill the Bitch.)
Seriously devastating Ulcerative Colitis flare.
An additional twenty pounds of weight loss, bringing my total weight loss since the end of January to almost 60 pounds.
A month in bed.
Serious muscle atrophy.
Crippling depression.
Problems in my personal life that I don't want to talk about. Ever.
July:
Got out of bed.
Got myself an antidepressant.
Got myself some awesome insomnia as a side effect.
Got sore walking around my house.
Getting stronger everyday.
I hate my new New Edgar Suit even worse than my old New Edgar Suit. I have batwings, which is not as cool as it sounds. Put me in a knee length belted black dress and I feel pretty good about my body. The rest of the time, I am miserably self conscious.
My pancreas still feels like it went a couple of rounds with George Foreman, Sr. AND his grill. This is what happens when an organ tries to dissolve itself in acid.
My Ulcerative Colitis is in remission, for the first time ever.
Because of the remission, despite the residual pancreatic pain and lack of physical strength, my body feels better than it has in half a year.
Some stuff about feelings:
It's easy to forget, when someone strong becomes weak, that eventually they will gain their strength back. This is why you must always double tap zombies. After they aren't stunned anymore, they'll be stronger than you again and then they'll eat your effing brains. That's what zombies do with their strength. They eat brains. I don't eat brains. I'm only allowed 25 grams of fat a day (which, if you didn't know, is about 1/4 of a cheeseburger) and I'm afraid most of the people in the world have big lumps of fat for brains. I'd be back in the hospital if I ate brains. Here's what I do with my strength: I hold up the sky.
I know this about myself, because as I was writhing in pain, too weak to even stand on my own, watching my body and resolve melt away, my entire life came crumbling down on top of my sick bed. I was too weak to stop it or move out of the way when it happened. I just laid still and let it crush me. There wasn't anything else I could do. I have never been so helpless as I was in the month of June. So those who loved me helped me until they couldn't anymore. Those who were selfish helped themselves and could not see how hard I was trying. Because, you see, it's easy to forget, when someone strong becomes weak, that eventually they will gain their strength back. I did not forget. I remembered, even at my weakest points, that strength is not ever-lasting, but it is regenerative. I am strong again. And again, I am holding up the sky. This is my job, you see. I am the Atlas of my own world. I have been since I was old enough to Know.
What I learned through this horrific, ridiculous summer is that there is no place in physical illness or ensuing depression for forgetting that the only place of refuge you can always depend on is the fortress you build for yourself. When the sky falls on your head, you can either be a Titan or Chicken Little. I know, it sounds like some goddamn Chicken Soup for the Soul bullshit, but it's true. There is no hero but you. There are no search and rescue teams to dig you out of the rubble. No one will save you but yourself. If you're really lucky, like I am, you'll find there are people in your life who can soothe you when you stagger under the weight of things. Maybe they'll bring you flowers or apple slices when you are sick. But you must always remember: They cannot bear your load for you. If you have a sky to hold up--and not everyone does, because not everyone is strong enough--then you have to use your own strength. Keep that in mind, people. Someday, it might save your life.
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