When you read, it’s the job of the writer to give you heavy descriptive words so you can paint the image in your head, or understand the perspective that’s being portrayed to you. As a writer and artist, you have the ability to over or under exaggerate your story. You also have the ability to leave certain parts out that you don’t want to share.
Humble. I want to handle this every day in the most humble of ways. That’s so much easier said than being done. It’s easy for me to sit here with my fingers clicking keys, and tell you how humbling I’m handling this. I could flat out lie to you and make it out like I’m the classiest person in the world with dying, but I’m not. I’m far from it, but I’m trying.
I lost my shit the other day. I spiraled completely out of control, and I don’t even recall all of it. I simply remember being incredibly frustrated that I’m constantly trying to remember where I put something or what I’m doing. This goes above your normal forgetfulness. At times I forget how to place the ponytail holder in my hair after I’ve brushed it. It’s a common dexterity that should be familiar to me, yet I stand there with my hair in one hand, band in another, tears swelling up in my eyes because I can’t recall how to twist, bend, and attach this stupid thing to my hair to hold it back. I despise being aware of it. The next time it’s all familiar and there isn’t a struggle, it you never know time to time when it’s going to change.
I’m pretty sure I lost it the other day over keys. Yes, keys that I had been looking for and had in a specific place. I couldn’t find them and had just been looking for all my other ‘misplaced’ items that were right in front of me a bit ago. After ten minutes or more of searching I found out my husband had taken them to start and warm up the truck. I should have been so happy that he is incredibly kind and thoughtful. But no, I lost my shit. I just spiraled because I had spent so much time in sheer frustration looking for these keys, feeling like I’m loosing my mind, that I just lost it physically and emotionally and the meltdown began. I kicked boxes, I screamed, I ended up on the floor, covered in sweat while screaming, sobbing, and bawling. I was likely snotting and salivating all over myself. All the while shaking, and I just kept repeating like a crazy person, “I can’t do this anymore! I don’t want to to this anymore!” Because I don’t. I fucking hate not feeling human, being in so much physical and emotional pain that the only resort is to finally cave to the pharmaceutical opiates. Then I’m a zombie. A medicated, disconnected zombie.
Frustrating is accurate. The mind games my body plays on me. It’s like being drunk and hungover but without any of the fun parts. I only get the memory loss, disorientation, and hellacious hangovers, but none of the great memories or fun regrets in the process.
I feel alone more than I should. I have the most compassionate husband the world could offer, and he’s a full-time career firefighter. I spend a lot of time alone. I love and adore what he does, and I wouldn’t change it for the world. It does however make it complicated at times when I’m so incredibly sick and he can’t leave a 24 hour shift. It’s something I will never blame him for, and at times, I love the quite house.
Through the past year, many of my friends have abandoned us. We walked away from car clubs and several events, for many reasons, but one of the main ones was hearing ‘friends’ or in most cases, catty women, accuse you of faking your health or doing it for attention. Yeah, I’m just seeking attention (inserts eye roll). That actually happened, and I truly hope the people that chose to not only think that, but take it upon themselves to try to tell and convince others, I truly hope they don’t show up at my memorial to mourn my parting. Maybe that’s not humble of me, but it’s real, it’s hurtful, and I’ve experienced it first hand.
I’ve closed a lot of doors in my life and I use to reopen them. The last year or so, Ive found it incredibly hard, and often too scary to open new doors to allow new relationships. I've grown older, seen the actions of grown men and women that put partying in front of being real with the people that need them in their worst hour. I’m doing my best not to be a bitter person from it. I’m doing what I can to remain humble, despite the actions, words, and messages from others that I have received, asking me not to be part of local events or car shows, because of my non-traditional beliefs, or because i have gay and transgender friends. Yes, I have literally been asked not to attend a local and particular car show that claims to be traditional with their rods and customs. I was literally told I was not welcome to support their show with funds, exposure, or attending. I’m being judged for who I am and because I am compassionate with all walks of life. So in some ways, I suppose I am bitter because the friends and family that said they would be there for you through it all, abandoned us when we needed them most. At the first sign of truly being sick, we were told we were broadcasting it too much as seeking attention. I’m not sorry we choose to step back from those that think it’s funny or acceptable to make fun of others health and life. We lost the zero fucks attitude, because when you have that attitude towards life and others, you lose your compassion and humanity and the rest of the world sees it.
I know I’m going to do this mostly alone. When Rob is at work, I no longer have anyone to call that can rush right over, or that can come to the store or parking lot when my heart has decided to go into afib. It’s just him. My small and scattered family doesn’t live close, and in the end friends visit less because it becomes hard for them to see you dying. It’s a burden they can no longer bare, so you do it alone. I have my Dalmatian, my loyal, loving, and always by my side, spotted girl.
And so I write...
Kandi
01/02/2020
