4.06.2012

The Purge Part 6: In Sickness and in Health.

I'm not going to tell you what this post is about purging. Let's just let this one unfold because, quite honestly, I'm not quite sure what I'm aiming at here.

I've seen you guys, all of you guys really but especially you die hard readers, especially those in SF or who read me back then. I can see you guys ticking the hits on my site tracker lately, checking in just long enough to know that I haven't posted in ages. Some of you guys are checking a couple times a day, just to see, probably waiting for me to weigh in on my test results. We'll get there.

I...WAIT. This is really hard. And I know, that's what she said, right? I mean that when I started earnestly writing this blog it was supposed to be funny; remember that? It was all comparing conquests and discussing the horror of performing frotage on circumcised penises and devirginizing Australians and stuff like that. We all had a good laugh, right? I mean, didn't we?

That's how I remember it, those years in SF; laughing and swilling martinis and cheap beers. Holding the ice in the bottom of a rocks glass with my forefinger while I upended it to drain the bourbon directly into my throat. Stepping into my corner store way, way past two for a Red Bull and a single serving of Absolute Citron only to marry them before the first of my Chuck Taylors hit the threshold of the front door and then fucking some kid on his roof two doors down. Three times I woke up in a hotel room and had to check the view out the window and the print materials on the nightstand to figure out where I was. Twice, it was just the Clift, a mere five blocks from my house, but the really funny time was the one that it was not. Who remembers that time I ran from Steiner and Pierce to Haight and Fillmore in maroon trackpants, green Vans, and my boyfriends' bright blue vintage ski coat to get condoms from my upstairs neighbor only to turn around and run all the way back? Do we even have to mention the Webster and Page house parties or the many, many sunrises we saw from Pant and Kristens' fire escape? Shit, once I got drugged at a girlfriends birthday party and after being seen weaving about the streets of the Richmond, a limo driver took pity on me and returned me to Lower Haight, and, true story, it was not the same limo that I had arrived at the party in. The end of that story is hilarious actually, and involves me puking in the limo, a friend who I wasn't even friends with yet, a homemade snowball, a set of lost keys, someone getting arrested (not me), a hip hop show (that I did not attend), and someone disappearing to Mexico for 4 months. All of this stuff actually happened.

And it will never happen again.

I mean, I knew this was coming--I spent those years in San Francisco counting down to my thirtieth birthday like a doomsday clock because thirty is that magic number when people, particularly women, generally start showing symtoms of their autoimmune diseases. I've been preparing for this for years, but now that it's here, and I mean really here, it's so different than I thought it would be.

This isn't fucking funny, you guys. This is downright unfair. And it fucking sucks because there are things that I have to give up just to be able to live and I don't even know what all of them are yet.

I'm just so fucking angry and I have no one to be angry at.

Something's got to give, some things have got to go. I have to eat and take my meds every single day, on time. I need to put away my laundry the day it comes. I need to figure out how to sleep nine hours a night (which includes figuring out how to fall asleep at night) and I apparently need to get more potassium in my diet.

I am finally, after years of failed attempts, being forced to purge taking care of anyone but me. And I'm not really sorry you guys, except that I never knew how hard it was before because maybe it has never before been this hard.

Oh, right. I should explain. I have Rheumatoid Arthritis, Lupus, Hyperthyroidism, and PTSD. I'm tired and hurt everywhere everyday. I work 50-65 hours a week. I'm now one hundred, seventeen pounds.

And I suppose that I am me.

--M




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