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MISCELLANEOUS
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Let Me Tell You How I Really Feel

I am sitting here trying to get up the whatever-it-takes to paint a smile on and get ready for the day and do something besides sit here in my private physical hell.

I am having company this weekend. That would normally make me extremely thrilled. However, I am in serious doubt of my hostessing capabilities. I don't want to be the rain on the parade. I have to go to the airport at four. I don't know if I can do it. Pray to The Fates for me that I may get over whatever this is that is making me so ill before three o'clock. That is Eastern Standard Time. Thanks.

My very sexy VS over-the-knee black leather boots will be here today and I was hoping to be in the state of mind to wear them. Sadly, I am not. Nor do I think my thighs are fooling anyone. You would think that all that hospital walking would have helped my situation. I guess you have to walk faster than half a mile per hour.

I gave up the idea of treating myself to a full day at the spa with facial, manicure, pedicure, massage and as much waxing as one person can get away with. It costs a lot. A whole lot. Not to mention I am too ashamed of the horrific state of my torso. Not that anyone would see that part. I would just feel really uncomfortable. I hate that about this whole thing. Like I wasn't insecure enough.

I wonder if I will ever get over that part. I honestly promised The Fates that if they would listen to my poor sob story and just let me live through all of this that a) I would never take another minute on the planet for granted and that b) I wouldn't care about the scars. I am trying to hold up my end of the bargain. It is just so hard. Especially since I really thought I was going to die and not have to keep it.

I keep reminding myself that as horrible as I may feel at the moment I did, in fact, live and that I should be running laps around the block, fists waving in the air, with some theme music in the background or something. Maybe I will feel like doing that next week sometime. Or not.

Some days I notice everything good about being alive and I just feel like I am just so freaking lucky to be here. I lay on the couch and watch the sunbeams come through the window and play on the walls and am content to just be.

And then some days I can't get past the physical hurt that is part of recovery, and I am so tired of trying to get better and I just want to cry and get pissed off and smash things up because it just wasn't my fault and I am tired of "keeping my chin up".

I sound completely ungrateful don't I? Yeah, I know. I am not really. I am very thankful that I have a full functioning digestive system. I really am. If this were all some horrible condition that I was born with or some disease that I happened to develop I think I would be a bit less bitter. Five months of torture and pain because one man fucked me all up will take a little while to get over.

Posted by gwendolyn on March 13, 2003 at 11:45 AM