Climbing Out of the Trash

I have a beautiful colon. There is no reason for the pain in my belly. I am a conehead. What I really mean is a hypochondriac, I’m sure of it. I think I better go to the doctors and have them order some tests! Aaaaahhhhh!

I never want to go to another doctor, ever. I’m so tired. Tired of these past years, of how the care giving has stolen my identity. Tired of only talking about illness and pain and injury and death.

I want my life back, to talk to people other than myself. To have a whole day to do anything I want. Sit in the park. Sit at the beach. Feel the wind on my face. Kiss someone who kisses back. Climb a gnarly tree. Lie on my back in the snow. Rub a horse’s velvet nose. Swim. Soak in a hot tub. Get a massage. See a movie and eat buttered popcorn and junior mints.

I want to be me again.

My joy has slipped away. I am drowning in my ignorance of how to change this situation. Drowning in a pool of unwillingness to save myself. Bashing my battered head against bloodstained bricks. Over. And over.  And over, again.

All that comes out is brains.

And all I achieve is a headache.

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