I resent the fuck out of you, Lyme.
In retrospect, I wish you had been CFS. Well. I don’t know that. I do know that the treatments for you are scaring me, though. I don’t want to go to the hospital. At least I can stomach needles. Sorta. Kinda. The kind of needles I’d have in me would be taped down solidly, so well that I’d not even see the needle, or notice it; if it joggled, I might remember. Or my brain would keep reminding me, through the herx and the anxiety, that needles are part of this fight.
How does anyone adjust to there is a needle in my body?
I’m losing weight again. 92.6. Pathetic. I probably fit into a lot of my old clothes. Good thing I never got around to giving them away, huh? You’re stealing away all the progress I made. I fought you for seven days and got some of my own back, but now even when I eat hearty, you waste me away.
Also, there’s this pesky question of identity. What am I now? Am I disabled? Ironically, now that we know about you, my mother is more willing to entertain the notion of assistive tech. It’s only for a little while, right? I’ve got to be able to live my life! Funny how that was always so weird to her before. What, did I not deserve to live my life when it looked like this was permanent?
I’m probably going to miss the Oscars. I hate you, Lyme, because I wanted that party. I’m not having jewelry for Christmas, so that was sort of my fallback position. Now I’m in DMAFP mode (Don’t Make Any Fucking Plans).
I wish I’d never gone to Alfred, never gone into the woods after dark, never fought my way through the underbrush. None of it. Hell, Alfred alone was pretty bad. But you probably came with the territory, and that breaks me a little. As if everything else wasn’t shitty enough.
I’m tired now, and I’m on my way to bed, but I just had to say one more “fuck you” first.
Fuck you, Lyme.