There are days when I feel things more than most. When everything seems more pronounced. Sometimes, I can’t pinpoint the reason. Today the reason was obvious: either this new steroid pack works on my mysterious “autoimmune problem that [I] have” or I get an injection with a 20mm needle into my right hand.
This was daunting for several reasons. One of them was that many parts of my body are ridiculously swollen, and a giant needle going into each of them seemed insane. Another was, “What is my autoimmune problem exactly?” Then there was, “I’m only 27. This can’t be Rheumatoid Arthritis. That’s what my 61 year old mother has. Even if I have something like lupus that younger people tend to have, that’s still terrible!”
So, today I am feeling everything, from my eyes catching pollen to my fingers aching as I type this. My toes ache in my shoes from their own swelling. My brain aches from tender thoughts, hurtful thoughts, mournful thoughts.
But then there is this recurring thought that is oddly grateful for the suffering I have endured.
If my mind wasn’t set on fire from the medical catastrophes I endured over the past 3 years, I would not have any of the material to write from that allowed me to become a published writer on the Mighty, and soon to be on Offbeat Bride.
These stones thrown at me by life have allowed me to build a dinky little weird word castle and enabled me to culture a strange confidence.
I may have been forced to take medical leave on my master’s program, but I am going to dedicate time to writing. I will continue to publish, and I will dedicate headspace to my memoir.
Now is the time to read all those books on my shelf, live at the library, and try to heal through the written word.
I can do it because I’ve been doing it.