Evil virus stage three:
Never tell a living organism, even (or perhaps especially) if it's only a virus that it's allowed to get as bad as it wants. Granted, I gave it this opportunity on a condition, and it has - somewhat - maintained its part of the bargain, but I'm still done doing deals with this nasty disease. The infection causing the sore throat that supposedly went away sometime last week actually just relocated to - of all places - my tongue, where I could witness its attack in full swollen, multi-colored glory. Several days later, my tongue has almost returned to its normal state (and my, does it look pretty now, having seen the front tastebuds big as sprinkles, the back ones big as peas, having looked at my mouth outlined in green - my, does normalcy seem brilliant!) and the infection has returned to my throat. Damnit. I told the sore throat, originally, that it could get as bad as it wanted so long as it stayed away from my stomach. (Recovering bulimic that I am, I will choose just about anything over the stomach flu.) Unfortunately, the inability to eat correctly that has come with a sore throat and/ or tongue leads to an incessant amount of things like appleasauce and pudding, which means a ridiculous portion of simple sugars and a scant portion of anything substantial, which eventually means migraine. And migraine means nausea, and nausea feels as shitty as stomach flu, especially when you don't realize it's migraine and are worried as if it were stomach flu. Ew. Have I thoroughly thrilled you with the details yet?
The past three appointments I've had with the doctor, I've almost cancelled and then planned to not accept my usual glass of water on the grounds that I don't want to spread my germs. I have another appointment tomorrow and am going through the same emotional acrobatics. I'm guessing from the fact that I've done nothing like what I've thought up until now that I'll go, and drink, and even talk (despite the [additional, novel] pain of it) tomorrow. I want to talk to him about John drawing a comparison between my illness and his recent-ordeal. (I'll call it an illness if he does; I don't want to use the term otherwise.) I have no idea what I need to say or hear regarding this, but I feel a desire to talk about it. And Aunt Sue needs to be beaten or at least gagged. She's all over me about my recent 'failings' in the interaction department. I have two phone calls I need to return - one as of today, the other as of last week, and several e-mails - one as of yesterday and one as of a few weeks ago and others that come to mind less quickly but are still important. She's not giving me the proper credit for finally catching up with all the diaryring sign-ups, so characteristic of her. I swear, if I can only learn to treat myself as kindly as those I love treat me, I will have a much easier time. I know that my friends will forgive me for not calling when it hurt to talk or not writing for more than 24 hours or even more than a couple of weeks. They love me. And I certainly don't hate myself the way I did; I'd venture (a little hesitantly) to say I don't hate myself a bit (right now...that's a knock-on-wood truth I'm frightened to type). So why the constant criticism? Why, why, why?
John is still here, but I'm doing better with it; he's gearing up to go back to his apartment soon. Mom said something to me today about how she's consulted around John's care, and I said the only part of that I didn't like was that it meant she was consulted around mine - but she said that really wasn't the case; she only sometimes asks about me - which I knew. She talked about John's unsteady state and my own l'il' colony in such a way that made me feel proud to be doing well again. That's a glorious feeling, and it's been a long time since I felt it last. A long time since the latter days of Rogers, when I finally came to peace with being loved for who I am instead of cared for due to sickness. Oh, the betterness. The betterhood. The betterocity of that. I can taste it with my swollen tongue.
And speaking of Rogers, I started a second paper-journal (this time with words, the other uses images) to spout my love for and memories of them. Not that I intend to stop doing so here, of course - but it's lovely to write freely; the liberation of not pursuing writing professionally has not yet left me, nor do I plan to let it leave without a fight. Also, writing in the book is a big step for me, a precious and important one. It's perhaps the most gorgeous blank book I've ever received - the kind where the binding and the paper make a girl's heart skip - and I've decided to toss the idea that blank things are prettier, are closer to perfection or whatever ideal we're seeking, than ones filled with imperfect, messy, loving ideas in imperfect, messy, loving handwriting. Squee. That's the sort of change I'll happily instate.
Notable Chapter Title of the Week, as provided by the rather confused The Haunted Bookshop (Christopher Morley) circa 1918: "Again the Narrative is Retarded."
That's pretty much my day.
~me