Distractions in its many forms...

I've never been one to lack hobbies. 

When I was younger I collected baseball cards, non sports movie cards, stickers, and all manner of cheap candy store counter fare.

As I got older I switched to comics and toys.

I draw, I paint, I play video games, I used to play tennis and I've taken up running.

I always figured my hobbies were my way of handling my addictive personality. Addiction runs in my family from the silly (arts & crafts, sports, memorabilia) to the scary (drugs, alcohol, eating disorders). I suppose I'm lucky that all in my immediate family tended to find their addictions in the silly. My extended family was not so lucky.

I'm the first to actually recognize and admit our "familial habits" as addictions, though. 

Since the age of 15, I've looked at my hobbies as an addiction, and I've accepted it as a force stronger than myself. But I figured that as long as it wasn't hurting anyone, myself included, it would be okay. 

I continue collecting, drawing, playing, and running to this day. I meet all my obligations, I pay my bills, I go to work, I spend time with family, so I figure its still okay.

But is it really?

I've been asking myself this with greater frequency lately. 

Are my "hobbies" addictions or are they distractions? Do they fill a hole in my life, or do they just direct me to distraction? Is it the same thing?

I've found myself obsessed with various distractions... All to avoid my pending medical issue.

Isn't that what addictions do? Allow you to avoid pending issues in your life? Something to take the pain away? Or is it just a distraction that you could control if you really tried?

I don't know.

All I do know is I'm going through life right now in a state of active denial about my final fate. It's an "active" denial since I'm purposely distracting myself to forget it. Maybe if it was a passive denial it would be better. I'd be able to believe it and it wouldn't haunt me during the quiet moments.

I'm done rambling incoherently. I have no point to this blog. I'm just doing this to distract myself anyway.

The road is long...

Sometimes I feel I'm drowning in quicksand.

I fuss.

I fight.

I struggle.

I can't breathe.

I can't find solid ground.

I slip.

Those are the worst of days. The days where everything is beyond overwhelming, and the noise in my head is so loud, the simple functions of life are the hardest thing. Those days I want to quit.

I want to fly my white flag and scream to the heavens, "You win! I'm done!"

Then there are days where everything is perfect. Those are days where I feel human and alive. I have energy, confidence and hope.

Those are days I want to fly the Jolly Rogers and given the heavens the one finger salute.

Technically speaking, given my exemplary test results, both blood wise and very expensively radiological wise, I should be sporting a parrot on my shoulder at all times. But I still fret. 

It's not physical, though my condition is quite firmly a physical one. It's all mental.

They always say getting there is half the fun, but I feel like this is my own private Ho Chi Minh trail. The journey sucks and the destination sucks more.

It's hard to find the good and the fun on the way to death... But my only other choice is to be miserable, and I don't think I can pull off a convincible French accent.

The road is long, 

we carry on,

Try to have fun in the meantime...

And the hits keep on coming...

Over time, I'm come into a form of acceptance with my condition.

I know the things to eat or not eat; drink or not drink; do or not do, that will allow me to maintain the status quo.

It's now become a second nature.

I'm used to being sick.

What I'm not used to is watching a loved one go through a similar experience.

A couple of weeks ago, I came home from the time waster that is my job to find my spouse with double vision and an extreme case of vertigo. We were both concerned that we decided a trip to the emergency room was in order.

I'm glad we did.

Results showed a stroke.

A stroke.

My constant in this never ending battle with my disease, the person I love most of all, who would face the hordes of hell by my side during my neediness, my rock... had a stroke.

"Overwhelming" is an under-exaggeration.

It felt like someone dumped a bucket of ice right on my head. Within minutes I knew my worldview had changed again. I knew the time for my self indulgent introspection was over for now. Now, I had to be the strong one, the rock, the constant...

So, I stood up, squared my shoulders, and took it.

Things have settled since that first shot across my bow. We're both lucky that there are no lingering after effects. There is no weakness, no loss of motor function, no proof that a stroke ever happened. If not for the telltale "spot" on the CT and MRI, I could almost imagine that it was all just a very bad, and unfunny dream.

I've come out this experience felling stronger, yet more vulnerable than ever before.

My spouse came out of this experience a little scared, a little in shock, a little angry, and a little confused... much like how I did, when I first heard my diagnosis.

In the end, I think he came out of it with much more understanding. He now knows how I feel. He says he gets it now, and every time he has to tell someone new.

I really wish he didn't.

It's not that I don't welcome the understanding... I just wish he didn't have to learn first hand.

I wish it had been me.

Help me heal me...

I'm a fraud.

Everyday I wake up and pretend everything is fine, I lie to myself and everyone around me.

Every time I go out and run several miles in fancy running gear, I'm just a child playing dress-up hoping mommy won't catch me.

Every charity I volunteer for; every donation of my time is a falsehood wrapped around a very real personal need.

I'm not fine.

Everything I do; everything I throw myself into is a distraction from the truth.

I'm hiding.

I'm trembling.

I'm so scared of dying, I'm trying to live to the fullest... only to find my life is not my own.

I need a vacation from myself.

I need to heal.

Doctor, doctor; Can't you see I'm burning, burning...

Inaction is stagnation.

Action, on the other hand is terrifying.

My doctors weigh the pros and cons of action, and they recommend inaction.

I'm told there is very little to gain and too much to lose by pursuing an aggressive stance.

I'm told my situation is ideal.

I'm told I should be relieved for the time being.

So why is it that I'm not?

I don't want to be sick.

Honestly, I don't want surgery.

But still I carry this uneasy feeling in my heart. I know I'm sick. I know I must remain vigilant. I'm a ticking time bomb on the verge of exploding...

I'm burning inside, but the doctors don't seem to notice.