Watching Me

I've never been a proponent of pointing out my bad qualities on the off chance that the respondent hadn't yet noticed them but it is probably glaring to you as it is to me; my writing has lost some passion. It's like I'm phoning it in, as they say in Bikram yoga, a euphemism for going through the motions. I am trying to figure out why that is. I am not completely numb although I am less prone to the extreme emotions I had been feeling. Many of the fears are old hat. I've built up defenses I didn't have before; defenses are like muscles and what I wasn't in emotional shape for in September is cake to me now; like running over the Brooklyn Bridge or camel pose in yoga class.

I won't lie; I cried the cries of hopelessness and despair when I received the information for Remicade in the mail (Remicade is the only colitis drug I haven't tried; it's like dialysis, you go to the hospital and get it intravenous every week) which according to their checklist, my level of illness makes me eligible for. Then I promptly threw the literature out. Same thing when I got the bill for my hospital stay which informed me that my insurance had decided against covering it. What else am I supposed to do? What are my other options? Regarding the hospital stay, I was told they were 'keeping me.' It wasn't like I decided to sojourn in the hospital for fun. It wasn't like being in a spa as my sister tried to convince me. And I don't care about what my insurance company says; I'm not paying. I can't get all up in arms about this stuff because it keeps happening. It keeps happening and I've stopped being surprised, stopped feeling victimized by it, stopped caring. So the fuck what. It doesn't faze me. And not because I can't allow it to but because it is relentless. And you can get used to anything if it it is relentless, unstopping and out of your control. Like when it rains every day for weeks and weeks you stop being surprised by the weather and stop cursing whenever you umbrella flips inside out. Gradually without thinking you mold your life around the new addition while trying to keep your life as normal as possible, normal meaning not giving the new addition too much time and too much thought and too much control.

Part of my loss of passion is that I am tired. I've mentioned that exhaustion is my latest manifestation of the disease. I have many theories for that. Number one is that it is validating to be told you are supposed to be tired that it's normal to be more tired than the average person when you have my condition. Suddenly years of faking it have come to an end and I can finally 'be' tired. Additionally, there are the after effects of the pneumonia. I know it's been a month but supposedly I am still in the recovering time frame and I've never been more bone tired exhausted than during the pneumonia and the weeks since. I also believe K's theory has some credence, that I've exhausted myself. I've been relentless and unstoppable since August. Life has thrown me lemons and I've exhausted myself catching them in my bare hands, bobbing and weaving and allowing them to hit the ground, I've managed to pick up a glove and put it on to weather the force of the fast ball, I've tried to employ pinch catchers, I've tried to convince people that I am being thrown lemons; sometimes it seems like no one sees them but me. I've used the lemons for tequila shots. I've thrown them back too but as I have no aim and 'throw like a girl' and can't see through the fog where the lemons are being thrown from that hasn't been successful. Ultimately, I've also made some bombass lemonade. I now drink lemonade without thinking, without tasting. It's like water to me now. It's just part of life. I would be more surprised were there to be no more lemons than I would were there bigger, sourer ones thrown at me. Throughout it all I have worked at being a good friend, grateful daughter, loving sister, runner, yogini, lawyer and writer.

It's kind of like my computer being broken. Suddenly I can rest. Suddenly when I get home there isn't the pressure to record. And I didn't know how much I needed the rest, how tired I was, how refreshing and restorative this rest is for me. Not having the computer makes it alright not to write. I can't watch television when the computer is staring at me; I must open it up and write. It isn't a thought process; it's a compulsion and it is gone now that I don't have my computer. Now I can read and watch my Netflix movies and wash my dishes and go through my closet and pick up my laundry and sleep. When I got diagnosed with the pneumonia after weeks of feeling like utter shit suddenly I allowed myself to complain and feel how I actually felt. I was tired. So tired that getting out of bed didn't feel natural, getting dressed didn't feel like something I should be doing, leaving the house to go to work seemed risky. But I did it. And up until the night before I was hospitalized when I was on the phone with my uncle who asked me how I felt, I gave my standard answer, "That's a loaded question, you know," and he pressed, so I added, "you know it's all relative; I've felt better and I've felt worse." Without the validation of a new diagnosis why detail the the fact that I was too nauseaus to eat anything until noon-ish and then had to force it and food tasted weird and I felt I was moving through pea soup or peanut butter, that I had tremendous shortness of breath and dizzy spells and the unbearable, unbelievable fatigue. Meanwhile when I asked him the same question he told me he had been nursing an upper respiratory infection for six weeks. I told him to feel better and then passed the phone to my father who had hours earlier arrived home from the hospital following his heart surgery. The next day probably because I could no longer put off my feelings as my dad had safely arrived home from the hospital, my feelings forced themselves out and I went to the hospital and was immediately diagnosed with pneumonia. As soon as I heard the diagnosis I let my head drop on the stretcher and allowed the nurse to cover me with a sheet and I fell into a dreamless slumber one which I had been dreaming about for weeks and weeks and weeks, waking when my mother showed and immediately falling back down after greeting her.

So it isn't that I don't have the passion per se, it's that I am taking advantage of the opportunity my sick computer has given me. I am resting. I am napping. I am living outside instead of inside my head. I am storing up stories to tell once I get my computer back. I am giving my soul a break from the contant stretching and flexing and scraping I have been doing to it. It is weary. I am giving myself a break from trying to convince my family and friends to come for a visit to my world. The less I have to focus on where I am, the less disappointed I can be and the less I am forced to realize over and over and over again that I am here alone. So fuck GHI and Remicade and Dell; they didn't beat me. I'm tired but I will be back; every time I run no matter how rare it is it never fails to be a warrior princess run. Whenever I miss yoga a few days in a row, I come back stronger. I kick ass. I'm not worried. So let me sleep and don't judge my latest publications as a testament to my writing. I'll be back and I'll be stronger than I was before.