There's just too much rattling around in there for me to concentrate.
Or maybe that's just procrastination, because entering that head space is so draining and I'm already running on fumes trying to figure out how to pay the water bill we overlooked two months ago so our water won't be shut off and scraping together the energy to do the deep cleaning of the house I'd intended to do last week had I not been bedridden a captive of my own literal lack of head space for breathing purposes and trying desperately to gather the physical resources to return to exercise because I've gained ten pounds in the last month and nothing fits right anymore.
Which is as good of a segue as any, I suppose.
I don't talk a lot about my diabetes anymore because in all honesty, I don't take very good care of it. I'm exploiting my own ignorance and fading youth while I still can, though if you asked me about the lack of feeling in my feet and hands I'd admit to it, and mumble something about needing to go to all of the doctors for all of the things.
My uncle is a doctor (not one of mine, but he has known me literally my entire life and been consulted on many of my ailments throughout my years) and is pre-diabetic, himself. This past weekend he looked me straight in the face after I helped him harass my diabetic grandfather about sticking to his diet (which he never does, and his body is actively failing him for it) and told me my time is coming, that I, too, will need insulin someday because my pancreas and the way I treat/neglect it will eventually catch up to me.
And I wanted to cry.
It's not that I don't know this. I know it like I know that someday I'll probably have to give up my uterus to the fibroids and my breasts to preventative mastectomies if my heart with it's double genetic whammy and the murmur never heard before I was 16 lasts that long. I have spent the majority of my life consumed with my own medical mysteries and right now, right now I just don't need to hear how I'm permanently broken, staving off the inevitable dependence on artificial bodily fluids and the graciousness of insurance policies (or lack thereof), living my life by the numbers yet again, only being as good as the damn numbers flashed back at me from a scale or a meter or a chart or a test.
I know that this is an irrational reaction to news I already know, and I know all of the arguments as to why I should give a flying ace right now, but I just can't. I am so worn down by the cycles I already go through to get Kiedis what he needs and just keeping this train wreck moving and I feel like I've already come so very far from when my life was defined by the litany of doctors and prescriptions I could rattle off like some people know movie quotes or the former Presidents of the United States and shock people with my nonchalance because what else could I do, it was my life.
Right now, I need my denial. I need that nagging voice to be barely a whisper while I work on getting this family stronger, better, happier, wholer. I need to be ready, to feel brave, to not drag my feet behind me biting back bitterness. I need to come to this ready to take it on head strong and be ready for those waves and spikes and to just feel strong enough to shoulder a new burden.
But right now, right now I can't.
And as stupid as it may seem, I need that respected.
I was in a good mood before I wrote this post.
Now I'm feeling all angsty and guilty because I didn't really want to talk about that, but it's what came to my fingers and I let them go. I have other stories from break, even other stories from this same conversation with my uncle, but I'm already feeling too defensive because I hate admitting my faults and my vulnerabilities.
Which is how, in some ways, despite thinking nearly every day about the posts I wanted to write while I had all the time in the world (when I could open my eyes, that is) and Evernoting all of the awesome one-line prompts I could dream of, a week away almost isn't enough time because I'm still not straight in my head, I still don't feel focused or ready to bleed it out intelligibly. I just make a haphazard gash and squeeze it hard to make it flare and then run and get the gauze because that wasn't how it was supposed to happen, that wasn't what I meant to do.
Every. Damn. Time.
And I'm starting to think that's just how I am, how I write, a hot effing maelstrom of feeling and bleeding and overthinking and impulsivity jumping from one thing to the next, never quite finishing what I set out to do and regretting that I never seem to really do what I intend, but what comes out is okay enough so I let it go because that's better than the nothing I had prior.
It's really a miracle that I get anything done.