I thought of starting by writing: I hate my life. Because I think of that exact statement in my head several times a day, every day, sometimes just a few times a day and sometimes dozens. I just tried saying it aloud, but I couldn’t tell. I mean I was saying it aloud after it passed, the feeling, although it never quite passes because then there it is again.
I hate that I get better and better at taking care of myself, but overall I feel worse and worse. I hate that I keep developing new health problems and the old ones don’t really dissipate. Maybe the pain in my surface musculature has become easier to manage, the pain that first gave me this fibromyalgia diagnosis, in all of its lack of specificity and was it helpful originally, this diagnosis, yes originally it felt affirming that there was some way to describe everything that was going on, but now it just feels vague and irritating, especially when I think about conventional medicine or not just conventional medicine but healthcare overall, and how there’s so little that helps me, and there’s so little that helps anyone with chronic health issues, however they are diagnosed, however they manifest, however they layer around us until we are waking up thinking: I hate my life. I hate my life. I hate my life.
I would like to continue writing, but I need to take a break. From the computer. A break to eat something. My mouth is dry. First I will drink something, another glass of water, maybe this is the fifth or sixth one in my first hour of waking, that’s normal. There’s a lot more to say: I want to write about how I make this feeling pass, even if it’s always there, like I watch the wind and oh, the leaves blowing on the trees, the branches bouncing and there’s so much joy and yes, that’s somewhere inside here too but so difficult to get out when there’s everything else weighing me down, beating me up, breaking me, suffocating and strangling and — oh, I don’t know, I didn’t like those last two words, they scared me. There’s fear too, and what is all this mean, like I realized oh, the headaches I had for all my childhood, or five or six years I think my teenage years, they were different then this headache because not brought on by light sensitivity but then I’m at the neurologist and he says those were probably migraines too, and what good is this word migraine when no one really knows what to do?
But if those were migraines too, all the time that headache, all the time and I swallowed all these pills that did nothing and then eventually the headaches went away when I remembered I was sexually abused. That was 20 years ago. Is there something I’m about to remember now, and am I ready? Will I ever be ready? I know I’m ready to feel better. I know I’m ready not hate my life, even when things are going well, I mean things externally that started internally like this new book I have coming out that I’m so excited about what is so hard to feel that excitement when I feel so horrible, planning a book tour even though it’s hard to leave the house, planning to travel for over a month and I thought it would be better that way, spread out, but now I just feel like I’m in San Francisco and LA for way too long. I want the internal and the external to connect. I want to feel connected.