I’m a mess right now. My body won’t stop trying to destroy itself. I’ve been living on rice, bread, bananas, and peanut butter for the past month because that’s about all my stomach will tolerate. Pickles seem to be ok lately, so that’s a small miracle. Everything else goes right through me in a torrent of gurgling and despair. I’ve lost five pounds and all sense of self. I’m so tired and malnourished it’s all I can do to get out of bed and migrate to the couch every day. I can’t seem to stop crying.
There are moments of numb acceptance. This is my life, and I just need to keep going. An upcoming doctor’s appointment will hopefully give me a diagnosis. A friend with IBD thinks I have something more short-term and treatable. I hold on to hope. I sit with my cat on the couch beneath the large window through which sunlight warms us both. I eat more pickles.
I wish I had something more to share, something worth writing about. But I’ve been quiet here for a bit, and I worry that if I don’t say something, you’ll all disappear. I’m hungry, and my brain can’t manage much beyond anxiety and sadness. So this is just a quick check-in to say that I’m still here. I’m doing my best. I hope you are too. I hope you’re having an easier time than I am. But if you’re not, I get it. I’m crying on the bathroom floor with you. I’m fighting my way back to the light with you. I’m sitting in the sun and listening to jazz and trying to convince myself things will get better. I’m trying. I’m still trying.
P.S. A new Sad Poets Society is coming in the next few days. I’ve been writing it while eating pickles, so it’s shaded with dill-flavored hope. Upgrade now if you want a taste.
WEEKEND POTPOURRI:
Currently on repeat:
A poem:
SHORT TALK ON PAIN
By Anne Carson
Lawns and fields and hills and wide old velvet sleeves, green things. They stretch, fold, roll away, unfurl and calm the eye. Look lush in paintings. Battles are fought on greens. Or you could spread a meal and sup. How secretly they lie, floors of distant forests. Next comes the grave, in many a poem about green. But this is not a poem. This is a billboard for frozen green peas. Frozen green peas are good for pain.
Aw sweet girl, a gut issue on top of all else, hopefully it's acute (as acute as a month can be) and treatable! My friend just had a bout of norovirus that it took them over 3 weeks to diagnose. . . .hope you get it figured out - sending hugs
Thank you for sharing where you are, and this beautiful music.
I too have my own kind of constant pain happening, and am sending you huge energetic hugs. I don’t want to begin our new Substack friend relationship by making a thousand suggestions, since I have no idea what is going on with you…so I will hold back on my caring that way… plus, it’s never useful unless it is a close person who is right there knowing your entire process.
I can promise that no one will forget you, since I just got connected, and I promise you are unique.