2018 was all kinds of wack. I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care, I’m gonna be honest about that. I spent most of my days drowning in my chronic invisible illness and praying to the powers that be to show this little ole me a tiny bit of mercy…just a fuckin’ dollop.
Every step I took was heavily calculated, I had to take into consideration what every daily activity came with, was it worth it? Having to go to the bathroom in the morning was and has been an occurrence that I did NOT look forward to, AT ALL. The kicker is, that was just one “small” task out of many that required too much wellness that I have become deficient in more and more over the years since this all began.
And though there are years I’ve left in the dust (time I can never get back, time that I was robbed of because of my illness), I’m making a choice to keep pushing forward in hopes that this year to come will provide me with 365 opportunities to turn all of this madness, chaos, sorrow and pain, around.
So universe, here I am, a vessel for life and spirit that you allow to pulsate through this shell, I humbly ask that you grant me the mercy I so beg for. I ask that you clear a path to joy and wellness, that you lift this grief of the loss of self, that you provide me with the tools to better cope with the cards that have been dealt.
Right before the year was up (literally on NYE), I missed a call from my neurologist and a voicemail was left. When I listened to it, my Dr’s voice came thru softly, informing me that there was nothing more they could do with medicine….that all they can advise now is surgical intervention. When I tell you my heart skipped a beat and dropped into my stomach……
I knew eventually this is where I’d end up, all this medicine was just a band-aid, and it was all just delaying the inevitable. But, I had no idea how much denial my body and soul were in. All of the rationalization in the world couldn’t prepare me for how willfully clueless my physical and inner being had become. Just telling myself I could keep going like I have. And I gotta be honest….even with all the facts laid before me…..I’m in no rush to take that invasive AF step, especially with no assurances.
I’ve been poked and prodded so many times over the course of these past few years, the recovery traumatizing and almost as bad as the illness itself, I think it goes without saying that I am not down for all of this, I’m in no rush (no matter what I stand to lose if I don’t do it).
On top of living in this mess of an existence and all that comes with it as a disabled body in a world that caters mostly to the able bodied (mind, body, and soul), and by world….I mostly mean America (can’t fully speak on places I have no real experiences with), I have to now deal with the fact that there is a potential procedure in my grasp that has high failure rate and a recovery that will surely rival hat of my recovery from the blood patch I had two yrs ago that I legit thought I was fucking dying.
I tell ya, it’s hard to not wonder what I could’ve done to deserve all of this. I know, I’m risking sounding entitled; who am I to NOT deserve all of this, right? But I have to ask, I have to know or this is all just more a haphazard mess of an existence than I’d care to admit and/or be a part of.
Ok, ok, existential reeling aside, I am still choosing to find comfort and joy in some small things (how every difficult that may be), and getting dressed is one of them.
This look isn’t the craziest, more is more, straight fiya ensemble I could come up with, but it’s still pretty bomb in all of its lowkey glory. When I have nothing left to give the boys and girls of the world, I find pieces that do all of the talking for me. I find pieces that can bring my personality forward as effortlessly as possible, because most times…I’m too sick to be bothered with the song and dance that is an introduction, I let my stunt speak for me. #StuntOnDesHoes #StuntLikeMyDaddy
For instance, instead of a plain pair of jeans or an average pair of bottoms…..why not make it a pair of berry colored pants? Why not then pair it with a sateen floral-printed bomber? Why not throw on some sparkly kicks? Why not seal the deal with a rad pair of pink cat-eyed sunnies? Alone these item sizzle, together they pop. I’m all about the pop. #SnapCrackleAndPopOnDatAss
This is how I speak to the world without having to say a word, and for a person like me and in my condition, that’s incredibly valuable and beyond important.
