I can remember when I first starting getting better, when I started writing this blog, constantly feeling like I had something to say. I've been searching my self for that inspiration again, but I consistently come up empty. It's like my setbacks block my desire to reach out into the world - or that, subconsciously, I don't want this chapter recorded for posterity. Tracking my triumphs was so much more satisfying than posting updates on my continued misery. It jerks me out of my bubble of denial - and forces me to confront the fact that I'm an invalid.
When I first went on bed rest, I deliberately stopped thinking about the future. I thought about one day, one week, and beyond that I left my life in the hands of the forces beyond my control. It kept me from sinking into the dark place, because when I didn't know what I was missing, I didn't feel as sad. But when my Enbrel started working, I suddenly was imagining where I could be in a month, or six months, or next year. Then some idiot slammed her car into mine, and here I am.
I'm tired of being sick. True, I guess I've always been tired of being sick, and I guess everyone who has a chronic illness is tired of being sick. But I'm twenty-one years old, stuck in my house with the same three angels every second of every day for the past eighteen months. I seek inspiration. I seek something, anything, that awakens in me the knowledge that I could be happy, someday. However, I feel that I have run out of places to look. Today, I made myself breakfast alongside my sister's closest friend, and found myself carrying on a conversation with my dog instead. And while she is a lovely beast, is it so bad to want more than a canine sounding board and a subscription to Netflix?
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