3.2 KiB
3.2 KiB
date, weight
| date | weight |
|---|---|
| 2019-12-21 | 2 |
It is surprisingly hard to think something real
when every indication, every word, all you feel
tells you that that must not be the case.
There's no easy way to make yourself face
that which your emotions continually deny,
no matter how true you know it to be.
But why
must all these contradictions claim events
that mean the most to us? What prevents
them from taking the unimportant? The small?
Is the import just to big? Can we not fit all
of the thing in our heads? Are we too weak?
Is the life-changing too fast to explore, to seek
out every corner?
Have you considered that your constant seeking may be the problem? That your anxieties leaking all over may be what's preventing you from recognizing what's actually true: you can do things for yourself. It's allowed.It also doesn't help that there were so many delays. The scheduler losing my application, and me counting days after those who consulted after me got their dates; The mishap of the letters, and me rushing past gates and their keepers; countless thoughts of countless regrets — regrets which hadn't yet happened — as mom frets that maybe I will wind up hating my new body. And why not? Why not fret? Surgery! How gaudy. I fight with myself enough over how this surgery is plastic, how I'm just doing something sugary to somehow make myself somewhat more appealing. How trite. How selfish. How lame. How revealing of my bottomless shallowness.
Your saving grace being, as always, dysphoria: more than any cough or cold, more than your chorea, it provided you with a problem. Something fixable. It gave you a tangible solution to something integral that plagued you.