v u l v a l i c i o u s
We're entering death season, and everything feels heavy. This shit is hard, ok? It's hard to have the memory of watching someone you love die, the slow process of decay. It's hard to wonder if you could've done more; if you gave up too soon. To consider that she felt bad for holding on and gave up because it was what you wanted, really.
It was. Driving away at night I'd sometimes wish that she could have that release from pain. But did she want it? Or did I?
And I've been sick for almost a year now. I say almost, but it was already descending on me like mist rolling down a hill: the slow creep of fatigue and depression and brain fog. I played soccer for all of ten minutes and felt like someone had pulled the plug on me. I forced myself up, but I remember the haze that I was in. It only got worse.
Yesterday I got a piece of a diagnosis, some little thing that might make a difference, possibly, maybe. Or not. We'll see. It doesn't feel like enough.
I'm still so tired. Every day. It's bearable, mostly. I can force myself up and out. But I know it won't last. It can't. It's like I'm holding everything together with fine thread, pulled taut, and at any second it could snap. I'll be a pile of bones on the floor.
At least I don't want to die anymore. There's that. It's a relief. I spent a few months with the feeling getting larger and larger in the back of my mind. "Wouldn't it be nice to just die?"
It wouldn't, not really. I'm glad it's gone. I hope it won't come back, but I don't trust it to stay away. Not during death season. I'm anxious. I'm tired. I'm vulnerable.
I wanna get better.