Every time I think I'm getting a handle on life, I look in the mirror and wonder how I got so old. When did I get jowls? I look like Marlon Brando. Okay, maybe that's from sleeping on my face too long. Or from the half container of brownie bites I binge-ate last week to feel better. Note to self: emotional eating still doesn't work for me.
I know the alternative is non-existence, which sounds nice in theory, but wouldn't work well in practice. Who would snuggle Kitten when she has PTSD episodes? I can already hear my sister decry that she's too busy this week to fly out and deal with all of my shit. And she's not wrong. Therefore, I'm trying to deal with all of my own shit. Like a goddamned grown-up. One day I'll get the hang of this. Probably long after I get real jowls.
I'm almost fondly looking back at when Migraine was my biggest problem. Don't misunderstand me, it's still huge, but now I have other contenders. And the sheer volume is becoming overwhelming some days.
I'm not ready to write publicly about them, but I will soon. I haven't told all of my friends and family yet because I don't need that extra pressure and stress of their reactions. And frankly, their judgments.
If you're someone who immediately tells someone what they should be doing or how they should be feeling, ask yourself if people have stopped telling you personal details about their lives. I also don't want to be fodder for gossip. "Did you hear about poor Wendy?" I know that's inevitable, but I can at least slow that train down a bit until I feel more ready to be hit by it.
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