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My Profile
Gift from Hil Part 2 - 2014-12-30
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9:53 a.m. - 2012-11-14
I am getting frustrated with how easily I tire. But this morning I trotted downstairs to use the can and back up and into the warm bed where Mick was waiting and realized I didn't cough and nothing in my chest rattled and was encouraged. Still not best pleased by how protracted my recovery is though. Mostly it's the not smoking. I feel like I should be rewarded in some spectacular showy way. The Surgeon General should come by, smack my forehead and shout, "Healed! You are healed, my sister!" and then a gospel choir would bust out in song while I ran out the door and did a marathon, arriving at the finish line all glow-cheeked and not even breathing heavy. Massive immediate results and rewards for doing something this hard. But so far nada. So you can understand why still needing to sit down after doing such arduous things like folding a load of towels is pissing me off. At the very least somebody should drop off a big cartoon check or a pony. Something, dagnabbit. The long-term reward of possibly hanging around another 10 years more when I'm a creaky old bat with cataracts, an irritable bowel, and grandchildren who I've never met isn't really blowing my skirt up. My inner miser is gloating a little over the money I'm not spending on smokes, but since I already shot the first 8 months' of savings on the damn KitchenAid even this is a hollow-ish sort of victory. Yes, I am cranky. Deal with it. Part of it is just my depression over losing yet another part of who I used to be. My life right now is a bunch of 'not'. A damning with faint praise situ where I haven't come up with any good things to take the place of all the things I am not anymore. I am not beautiful Of course the latter three are technically good things. Marriage and lifesaving things. Necessary and important. But honestly? The idea that I will never take another bong hit, knock back a shot of tequila, or light a Virginia Slim ever, ever, ever, ever again is fucking depressing. "Oh, but LA! Just think of the clarity of lungs and mind!" "You'll live ever so much longer now!" Yeah, and? Now I have another 40 years to be fat, ugly and boring. Whee. I know, I know! Okay? I get it that it's on me to figure out what the hell to do with myself. And if I am a sexless, juiceless, baggy, brown-haired lump of "Duh!" it's my own damn fault and only I can change it. It's just that I was myself already. And now I'm not. Mouthy, needy, fast talking, hurting, sports car driving, unhappily married, amazingly good at my job, too tall, too blonde, big boobed, hilarious, smart, shattered self-esteem, politically astute, badass on the outside/hippy on the inside, over-emotional, momsy, romantic, often frightened LA who liked her weed, Jack, and tobacco. Hardly anything on that list is a good thing, but they were ME. It was the only me I knew how to be. I don't know how to be this LA. This calm, healthy, boring, quiet person. Stupid, but it's the stone truth. I never realized that without my mess there wasn't much else to me. I was the sum total of my wounds, flaws and deficiencies. And now that I'm fixed there's nothing left. I've cured myself out of existence.
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