My Heart In My Throat
My health has been very poor since October last year and almost everybody I told did not act accordingly.
I don’t know what I expected, but it certainly was not this exile, this inability on their part to deal with my sickness. I stood gaping at the starting line, carrying hospital beds on my back. Hauling the weight of cab rides where I had to ask drivers to pull over so I could empty my guts onto the sidewalk. Every eyelash that fell out, that I woke up to on my pillowcase, my bare face, they weighed a tonne each. For every morning I had to kneel beside my bed before standing, those were the weight of one whole person, every time a stranger asked if I was O.K, those were heavier still. Strangers were more concerned, I peered at their furrowed brows and could not imagine this same reaction on the faces of people I had loved previously. They have finished whatever race this is months ago. The one person who kept reaching her hand back to grab at my wrists and pull me along with the rest of the world is, of course, just like me. I don’t understand, for all the time I have spent watching people and observing people and writing about them, I don’t understand their simple evasion, do they even have guilt to ignore? It’s upsetting. I am allowed to post ugly things about me being upset.
Tough Night, huh?