Monday, July 12, 2010

Letter To My Doctor

Dr. --,

I always say "you are your biggest battlefield" and that is ringing so true for me at the moment.
The past couple days have been rough. I am seeing a great deal of improvement.
However... The more improvement I see, it seems the more the anxiety sets in and I just think, "but it will stop" or "but it will be back. It always comes back."

I read the foreword of the book that you sent me as soon as I got the package you sent.
That doctor tells the story of having gone to an internist and being sent away after hearing, "I can't help you."
I burst into tears after reading that bit.
See, I've always felt helpless when things would flare up, I would be bed-ridden for a few days, I wouldn't get any sleep, I'd go to the doctor and he would prescribe steroids or antibiotics (or psycho-therapy. yes. it happened.), or, like the last one, he would say, "and now you're cured!" and I was very much not cured and when I tried to contact him again, he just never got back to me.
So I've just always thought, as long as I can remember, that this is how it is. "It is what it is" my mother says for a lot of things and so I had decided that 'what it was' was a body that hated me.

Well now I am seeing these improvements and understanding a lot more of what is going on and really starting to wonder if things could just be normal for me. And stay normal.
I'm honestly very afraid to think or believe these things.
Disappointment is a vicious and unforgiving lady.

I know this is not much of a progress report. The subject line was very misleading.
I haven't mentioned any bathroom breaks but I assure you I'm still doing everything you told me - religiously. I'm sorry because it's probably wasting some of your time to read this malarkey.

I'm just losing the fight in me because I'm so desperately afraid of always being in the dark and one step behind the reason of why my body seems to hate me and I think I needed to tell someone who seems like they might know what I mean.
Know what I mean?

Anyway, thanks for reading. I hope you're well.
Expect a real progress report soon. Scout's honour.



Sunday, July 11, 2010

And Back Again

Louise. Darling.

I've always heard it said, there is "no rest for the wicked" and then, to follow-up on that, "the righteous don't need any."
Downright criminal, if you ask me.
I steal as much sleep as I can get because - like you dearest - I don't get much of it either and what I do get, is fitful and heavy. Makes me feel more like I have been chasing my tail than any amount of "replenishing."

Louise, I find normal very very droll.
Your "normal" needs to come from whatever you make of the happenings. You could be standing in a field in Bora Bora or beating your head against the pavement in some second-world country, but "normal" is going to be pretty relative to the various colours on the spectrum, don't you think?
Just make sure your "normal" is the "normal" that you mandated, that you wanted. If the cupboards don't hold it, stop going there.

I am in a lot of discomfort. I cry a lot. I'm not eating a whole lot because of this god-awful diet that the doctor has put me on. I'm desperately pleading with my body every day to rally itself, to come to its own aide, to be its advocate, to heal.
I know that the time will come. Until then, it's that waiting game that I am so furiously bad at.

In the meantime, I hope I see your lovely face soon. It is much needed in these parts.

Oh and? My hair smells of peppermint and rosemary.
God's in His heaven...

Your Thelma

Friday, July 9, 2010

From Louise To Me


They say there is no rest for the wicked. Or is it the weary? Help me out on this one, as it's imperative.

I can't even keep my euphemisms straight anymore.
Regardless, I haven't had a restful night's sleep in ages.
It doesn't help me that you're on the lamb, or that I'm on the lamb, or that we can't keep our lambs in their pens.

This road is getting weary. I scrape off new calluses and old blisters every day; I dig through bathrooms looking for lotion, razors, tweezers, anything to give me that sense of normalcy. I eat what's put in front of me, and I'm hungover way too often for your mother's taste. Today I rode a horse. I'm sitting on a lakeside on the border and I really have no idea what I'm doing here.

But my fingernails are cut and clean and my hair smells like orange ginger and is drying in the dying light of the day, so there must be something right with the world.

Your silence is understandable, though I wonder if your battle is anything like mine. We have been separated too long. When you find the strength, write me back.


Tuesday, July 6, 2010

You're Violet, Violet

I have surrounded myself with the journals of Slyvia Plath, any movie I can find, and as much sleep as I can tie down.

It's coming sporadically and horribly.
"Sleep is the poor man's respite" never was a filthier lie.
The dreams are unfiltered and raw, much like my aching body.

Whatever your prayers look like and whoever might be listening, think of me when it all goes down, yeah?
The doctor has taken complete control. I hope to be further from Bed-Ridden on a sooner than later time scale.
You are in my thoughts.
And such.