Seven

A list of things I no longer enjoy because of disabling chronic illness: getting tattoos and piercings, riding motorcycles, alcohol and food, traveling, sunshine. I’m drinking a rose latte at the Yemeni cafe around three corner, listening to Faces, telling myself I’ll feel better to write a bit.

At the rate I’m going, if I live to see my fourties, I’d get my PhD by 45. (Thesis) A lifetime of learning how to explain with words what I have no idea how to explain meets (antithesis) crippling (literally) disability results in synthesis: a heteroglossia of sick voices, god willing and the creek don’t rise. My story spine. Hegel, be proud, concrete, abstract, and absolute.

Speaking of my spine, a new psychiatrist read me to rights this morning. I described where in my body my anxiety takes root and what an emotionally deregulated meltdown sounds like. Apparently, not everyone’s mind fears the reality of being a planet in space. Think about it. No, don’t. Another medication (the creek didn’t rise) and regular, frequent check-in. I tell her my ACE score is 9 and she tells me my GAD-7 is too high. New goal: lower it. More sunshine. Okay.

Tattoos and piercings used to be how I went deep. Until blood work, infusions, injections, vaccines, biopsies, glucose tests were monthly, weekly, daily. I can’t seem to bring myself to a place that I know is gonna hurt unless the pain management team brings my ketamine and my surgeon uses a nerve block. I’m glad I finished my Higgs sleeve before I replaced tap out sessions with tap out admissions.

This is all to say that my wheelchair arrives in two weeks and I’m feeling every type of way and before you say it, I know it’s okay. I know it’ll be great. I know.