Drive My Car

I don't want to write but I am compelled to write. Again my cup runneth over. I am overwhelmed by the reactions to what I wrote yesterday. Are they warranted? I don't know. Am I crazy? I keep thinking I am. Is that warranted? Probably. I got a message from someone I don't know who like me has a chronic illness and expressed her disapproval in my method of coping that to retain some dignity I must keep my pain away from others. She followed that by explaining, "[T]his is why I have self inflicted cigarette burns up and down my arms that no one ever sees." That shattered me a little bit because I hate that I have been so open about this. I have never been so open about anything and after yoga last night I was so embarassed with what I wrote yesterday. So embarassed for the feelings I had, so guilty for feeling so selfish and not grateful enough and for complaining so much. Should I just be burning my arms with cigarettes instead of sharing? I really have no idea.

I also received an email from my mother where she expressed her anger and emotion at what I wrote yesterday conlcuding by imploring me to research the surgery further. What should I do? I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. Something is being lost in the translation between me and others and between me and myself and between me and my "new" normal. I hope I figure it out soon. I can't have my mom be feeling that way, my stoic mother who even during the 30-40 minutes we waited for the results of my HIV test expressed no emotion and would have remained that way if the result had been positive. She would have stood by me and not shunned me or blamed me or been embarassed she would have taken care of me and done whatever it is she could. So you can see why I wouldn't want her to feel anger and emotion at what I wrote yesterday. She must feel like if I got the surgery it would put me out of my misery that she can't stand to watch. I don't believe I have arrived at the vortex where low quality of life meets with the level of risk the surgery involves (in reality or in my head, I don't know).

I keep trying to explain it figure it out decipher it. Why do I have this huge block around that. It feels like the hugest risk in the world to me. It feels like I could die naked on the cold steel of the operating table. I have had such shitty luck with all of this crap that to voluntarily venture into the operating room freaks me out beyond belief. It's a fear that can't be rationalised or analyzed or deciphered or separated into bitesize pieces. Just thinking about it makes me feel my heart in a vice grip and makes my heart pound uncontrollably. Just thinking about it makes me feel the chills up my spine as scratching my teeth down a blackboard would. Just thinking about it makes me want to smoke a pack of cigarettes, Marlboro Reds of course, and go to the nearest bar and drink myself into oblivion. Just thinking about it makes me want to run out into the snow storm no coat no hat into the middle of the street and go home and climb into bed and cry.

Seriously, how long am I going to live like this? Complaining. In pain. Annoyed. Frustrated. Unhappy. How long? As Dr. Lax says, I am not good at being sick. AC told me I wasn't a good patient. I know it. They're all right. I just spoke to my dad and he infuriatingly asked, "who is good at being sick?" People are. Some people happen to be more patient and more deferential and more accepting of their 'lot in life' and less defiant than I am. I am good at other things but I was not meant to be sick. It's like what V said after she and Fig broke up which stuck with me because it was such an interesting way to describe how she felt, she said, "I wasn't meant to be this sad." Now - sadness I can do. I'm a pro at being sad. I wouldn't say I enjoy it but I can say that her words resonated with me because that's how I feel about being sick. I wasn't meant to be this sick. So where does that leave me? The surgery option sounds too good to be true to me and nothing about this experience has been good. I can't imagine they just snip snip away and I walk out of there bionic and brand new back to 21 year old Briana who I was before I had this disease. I can't imagine it.

Whatever's meant to be will be. Que sera sera, right? I hope V's right, that she wasn't meant to be that said and therefore I am not meant to be this sick. I hope we both get our happily ever afters and some nice doctor knocks me out, cuts me open and removes all of the sickness, disease, evil, negativity out of me, all 1.5 meters of it and I get old normal back, taking only the drugs that I want to take, for fun. Or better yet that I go back into remission and no cutting needs to be done. And that V gets to be happy.