Writers

I swear, I’m radiating unhappiness.

Thursdays’ appointment made me feel like a fucking fraud. Despite the fact that I KNOW I suffer greatly, you cannot see anything I suffer from. It’s like being slapped in the face a bit. People can’t help but stare at you, because they’re questioning your validity of illness without knowing a single thing about you. I could almost hear people’s thoughts as they wondered why I was there. It’s very similar to when doctors tell me I’m “too young” for certain treatment methods or medications. They would have no problem if I were over 70, but anything under that is just plain “too young” for them to take me too seriously. I hate it.

In a room filled with wheelchairs, walkers, scooters, canes, oxygen tanks, etc., and being the youngest person there, not for the first time, I felt overwhelmed by other people’s pain. It makes you feel bad for asking for help, no matter how badly you need it. I definitely need it, or I wouldn’t have put myself through that.

My neurology appointment is set up for early June. I am both looking forward and not looking forward to it. I want results. I don’t want to play games. I don’t have the energy for the nonsense. Run tests, and tell me where we go from there. I don’t like to drag anything out. I’m concerned that new tests will show the progression of how bad things are. I am certain my MRIs and x-rays are going to show significant changes from the last time they were done. Between my spine and my brain, there’s no way it’s all going to look the same or report the same way. I am trying to be prepared, but mostly, I’d like someone to be here when I have to sit and cry over it. Ultimately, I likely won’t discuss what’s going on, unless it’s in an abstract way. I’ve only recently realized I’ve been doing that for years.

People assume that as a writer, my entire life is open for public consumption. It isn’t. I don’t even post my cats names on here, preferring to call them Cat and Kitten, instead It might seem silly that I don’t just declare them by name, but they’re very unique names (Everyone who meets them comments on this fact. I’m not a “Princess”, “Pearl”, “Muffin”, “Socks”, or “Mittens” kind of gal.), and they are special to me. In my life, when I do write directly about it, everyone has a nickname or a title, but I don’t give more than that. I learned early on in my career that you don’t put your business “out in the street”. The Internet is, at times, a vast gutter. There is both good and bad, as in all situations, but I do try to keep the personal as private as humanly possible. The few times I’ve opened up on a very personal level, I can say that I was met with disappointment, anger, and rudeness, even from people I deem close friends. No one needs that, so I keep the private stuff where it belongs.

In other situations, I am supremely open and honest about what I am going through. I guess in most respects, I prefer things to be one-on-one. If I say something, I say it in extreme confidence. It helps because if it is repeated, you absolutely know who you told, especially since I keep my circle small.

I’m proud of my accomplishments and what I put my name on, but when someone clicks LIKE on something particularly painful, it makes me wonder what the hell is so damn likable about anyone’s pain. I’d much prefer someone say “I can’t like this, but I understand how you feel.” or ANYTHING that is a little more concrete than clicking LIKE. I’ve told many people that I cannot “like” their torture and agony, but that I can support them for writing about it. They’ve always understood the difference.

So as I go to sleep tonight, questioning the never-ending excitement that my life is NOT, I’m going to think long and hard about what I will be writing, and saying, next.

Bright Blessings.

lisa1