I don't want to get my hopes too high, but it's something to look forward to. It's more than the "there's a test scheduled" sort of mental satisfaction. This time it's the next step. The step I've been waiting for for several months.
We don't exactly know what happened, but about six weeks after my hysterectomy in March of 2016 my body started changing.
I've always been "big". At one-hundred and forty pounds I look anorexic—my face is sunken in, ribs protruding. That was normal for me. My body won't be small, it won't ever fit what's considered healthy for my height and age. It took twenty-six years to figure that out and be okay with it.
This was different.
Looking back, I probably didn't need the hysterectomy in the first place. That surgery is probably what sent this condition into overdrive. But we didn't know. I can't stress about that because all that does it make things worse. It's time to move forward now.
I'm done thinking about the past—I got that shit out now. I'm ready to move forward.
Forward looks bleak, but it's still forward. It'll still be progress from this very moment.
June thirteenth marks the day I'll meet the gastroenterologist-slash-Porphyria-specialist recommended to me by the American Porphyria Foundation (APF). Doctor Cynthia Levy.
Today my husband asked my in-laws to take the kids for a couple days so we could road trip it down to Miami. I can't handle the walk through the airport, nor being surrounded by masses of people...
I just got off the voicemail of my urogynecologist's office asking them to fax my chart (charts? Oh well) over and now it's time to write.
I started bullet journaling, although I do everything "wrong", on purpose it seems.
I guess you could say I borrowed the general idea of it and spawned a hodgepodge of "breaking all the rules" of journaling and to-do lists and planning. I really just wanted the unrestrained freedom of blank, subtly dotted pages that allow anything your imagination can muster.
It couldn't have come around at a better time, really.
I remember seeing bullet journaling a couple years back, I believe. My first thought was, wow, these people have way too much time on their hands. But now, I get it. At least I get it from my own perspective.
For someone who makes planners as a good portion of my income, I bought a bound black book with an elastic band to secure the top cover and a fabric page marker. I've spent more time on this little journal than I'd care to share as a "productivity expert", but right now I just don't give a shit.
It makes me happy. I'm drawing again. I'm writing more. I'm planning and working and doing more things that make me feel good about life.
It's giving me more reasons to whip out the arts and crafts bins for my kids while we all gather at the kitchen table and work on our custom journals.
I'm actually doing things with my children, and damn does it feel good.
It masks the potential Porphyria diagnosis for a while. It's just me and my kids and our little notebooks. The kitchen table is covered in safety scissors, pens, markers, scraps of paper because my toddler is in the "cut everything up into tiny bits" phase.
And I love it.
June thirteenth could be one of the most important dates of my future, but right now it doesn't matter. Right now I've got my journal and a few more weeks before summer—when all the girls are home from school and we'll be crafting at that kitchen table probably every day.
It's going to be a great summer.
He didn't sign up for this, but he's still here.
A Pill For A Pill Leaves The Whole World Drugged
I've got nothing of value today. Only anger.
What could it be?
I didn’t prepare for it.
I think I like not knowing.
What do I want to do with this?
Hmm… Good question.
It had just started to rain and the dog was whining at the back sliding glass door.
I don't want to get my hopes too high, but it's something to look forward to.
"What do you want it to be?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you act like I haven't done anything over the last three years. Three years..."
So much stuff. What's the goddamned point?
Time seems to slip away faster now.
If only I could take them with me.
'How's your business going?'
'Fine.' I hate it.
If only he knew her, then he'd understand.
'I wouldn't do it again, if that's what you mean,' I said, pulling my MacBook Pro closer to me atop the long work table in the mall.
What was she thinking?
My fingers are crossed, but I'm not sure if that's enough anymore.
They always end up letting you down.
It always happens in droves.
She caught me with the knife when I was sixteen, maybe seventeen.
I like being flawed. It gives me something to write about.
I let my kids examine my naked body yesterday.
There's no winning with blame.
Every time I think I'm getting better at this whole life thing, I do something wrong and set it back.
It was cold that day. Odd for Florida.
I gave twenty dollars to a woman on the side of the road today.
I like getting older.
There's something about with age and experience comes wisdom that's exhilarating.
The bad thing about family is you can never escape the past.
They remember everything.
I'll see this one through, I tell myself. I'll finish it.
After this, I'll put it to bed. After this, I'll move forward.