My day is Monday. That has been my day and I have kept rigidly to that for the past month.
Yesterday, I couldn't. I couldn't even begin to think about a post because I watched the woman I love struggle beneath the weight of ailments that have plagued her long enough for her to forget what it was like to feel well. She tells me through tears that there are those in her life, family and friends, who believe that she is overreacting, that she is somehow exaggerating a physical condition that couldn't possibly be as bad as she describes.
They don't feel the impossibly frigid cold of her hands or watch her eyes gloss over with exhaustion from simple tasks or, even more terrifying, no task at all. They don't see her swoon as she stands too quickly or watch her struggle to eat. They don't help her cross the street as she fights to focus her vision or lay with her in bed as she cries softly to herself from stomach pain that will not cease. They are not here. They are not here and they, somehow, feel like they have the right to an opinion.
And, in this moment, words cannot adequately express my rage.
I struggle to describe pain this acute and this personal in the detail it deserves. It feels like a betrayal of an unspoken trust and, even as I write this, I find myself both verbally and subconsciously asking permission with each sentence.
From 12/2/14 - The last entry of my previous blog.