Under pressure...

I've been finding myself humming the opening riff of what folks my age would automatically recognize as "Ice Ice Baby."

However, I not doing so as a plea to "stop, collaborate and listen." I'm doing so because what it am is "Under Pressure."

I'm under pressure at work.

I'm under pressure at home.

I'm under pressure at my doctor's office.

It seems all I do is work all the time, and yet there's never any money to show for it. It gets sucked up by my doctors, medicines, procedures and tests. It disappears immediately. 

I worry about money constantly.

I worry about my health constantly.

I worry about my family.

And on those rare days I feel worry-free? Someone will ALWAYS show up and drop a new worry in my lap.

I'm the one everyone comes to when they are in trouble. I'm expected to solve their problems. I'm supposed to know all the answers. I'm the strong one they say.

I'm not strong. I'm tired. I'm angry. I'm frustrated. I'm stressed. I'm not fucking strong. 

I just want to sit in a dark room and cry angry, frustrated tears.

I want to run outside and scream.

I want out of this situation.

I just want out.

Why won't they let me out?

My doctor told me I've developed an ulcer. The response I got from my support system? What do you have to be stressed about?

What do *I* have to be stressed about?

This is my last dance.

This is myself, under pressure.

Keep me hanging on...

It's been a while since I updated this blog. 

I can only beat a dead horse for so long before the horse no longer resembles what it once was. 

I'm sick.

It sucks.

Repeat.

I'm still breathing, still asymptotic, so I suppose that's good. It just doesn't make for good writing material. 

During my time away from notating my slow progression towards the light, I've had a chance be an observer. When I go to my doctors, or to the hospital, I watch my fellow patients. I imagine what their lives are like. By their dress, or manner of being, I try to guess what others may see when they see these folk out and about the mundy world.

Do they just see a drunk? 

Do they see a crabby old bastard?

Do they see a punk kid with no respect?

What if they saw them all here, in the waiting room at the Organ Transplant Center? 

I see people from all walks, all battling a disease that yes, can be self inflicted, or can be genetic. I see the looks in their eyes. I can see those who have given up. I can see those that still have the fight in them. I can see what may become of me, as though watching through a foggy glass.

Because of my being asymptotic, this disease is nothing but a spectre, ominous, but as solid as wisps of smoke to me. I'm disconnected.

I'm not naive, I know how this disease kills. It's drawn out. It kills your organs one at a time. It's painful. You drown from the inside out. I've seen people I love go down this road. 

I recently lost a friend to this disease.

He was one of those few who finally gave up, and let the disease take him. He gave up the fight during a bout a deep depression. 

But still I feel the disconnect.

My test results show no progress towards that destination. 

And that keeps me hanging on.