I hate being sick. That’s a pretty lame admission because as far as I know — nobody relishes the idea of being crippled by blocked nostrils, bronchial infection and a booming headache speared on by a nagging constipation.
But as luck would have it or perhaps in my case — fate — since I was playing in the lions den — I am a mess and will remain so until — whenever.
Despite the physical toll that is exacted with no mercy — there is a surprisingly rewarding interlude that grips my emotional sector and forces me to sit back and take in the sights and sounds of what my life has been like so far.
And if I make it to the end — I get a sneak peek of what the future could hold.
Truth be told, when I’m single — I tend to leap out of bed at the crack of dawn. If snuggle time is limited to my insufficient pillows — then I might as well get up and make things happen.
It helps to reduce the time and energy I would spend fantasizing about the alternate universe where I’m dating a younger, cute artist who is in his late twenties and likes to make me “happy” before he releases me to the world.
Nah, no need to torture myself with imagery that can’t be realized.
But, when my immune system takes a nose dive — I have to file the paperwork for the inventory that will calculate whether or not I’m really as sane as I believe I am.
It’s been three days now — and so far it’s clear that while I’m doing a hell of a lot better than I was a year ago — there is a level of discomfort that comes with just being for an extended period of time.
When you’ve been through a traumatic experience — especially as a child — the coping mechanisms may differ but the goal remains the same.
You master the ability to create versions of yourself that can take over from the others — when a break is warranted.
Think “The Three Faces of Eve”, (which I’ve seen a gazillion times) but not quite as severe. Or maybe I wrongly convince myself it isn’t.
As a child I used to create breathtaking scenarios that would propel me just at the right time and to the perfect destination.
I still rely on this technique quite heavily which could explain the present state of things.
It’s almost like being locked in prison where the only option is to dream your life away. But it’s worse when it’s a mental institution of the mind.
You can’t ever check out.
With tons of time on my hands and the assistance of Netflix to arouse my fancy — I’m being tasked with the assignment of reviewing who I am and whether or not this person is doing okay
I’m doing okay. As I lay down with my eyes closed, with my bowl of noodle soup on the table next to me and my phone purposely out of reach — I’m suddenly given the 3-D experience as I take in an unedited cut of my journey thus far.
Each vignette leaves a lesson learned or to be unfolded.
Turning forty almost three years ago was hard. I was single and childless which isn’t the way any woman should welcome such a milestone unless they planned for it.
If not — it’s literally the worst thing that can ever happen to you. And I’m still not over it.
Turning completely gray at forty-one was devastating and confusing. It felt like a punishment. It’s still does.
Hormonal issues that invite a slew of health predicaments that could not only threaten your reproductive capabilities but also your quality of life has been a major buzz kill. So, I chose to pretend that the stark signs would magically revert to the normal.
Lying here with sweat running from my neck down my back as I soak up my soup — I suddenly don’t want anymore of it.
Fuck. I need to take responsibility for what is happening and get checked out. For real.
I find my phone and attempt to browse for info but — then there is Twitter.
My timeline awakens and I see that “Deadpool” did it again. There is a picture of Ryan Reynolds and Blake Lively. They look happy and relaxed in the glory of the life that has been bequeathed them.
I lay back and look at her. She could’ve easily been me — and me her. I wonder how she would handle being a forty-something woman of color who desperately wants what she has but has to prepare for the possibility that it will never happen.
Never happen. Shit, I have to sneeze! This cold is a mutha!
It’s also the catalyst for the voice of doom. I try to call on the Lord to rescue me but my prayers are muffled in pretense and self-defense.
He can’t help me when I’m like this.
I close my eyes and psych myself to believe that this is just a bad episode. It will pass.
So what if I may never have sex again because my body is transforming into the prototype of an eighty year old.
Calm down! Having children is overrated — you hear the horror stories.
And being the oldest person in the room all the time shouldn’t fuck up my self-esteem — it’s an honor to get older. So many are deprived of it.
Then the darkness lifts. The movie is over. I stay in my seat as the credits roll.
That was quite a story but the ending left much to be desired. It didn’t have that punch of finality.
This means there is more to come. Wow.
I wonder if she makes it. I kinda hope she does.
But you never know…