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...
