Emotions are bizarre. I had a nice evening relaxing, sipping wine, eating warm, comforting (and low cal) soup while catching up on some of my favorite TV shows. In my book, this counts as a pretty great evening. I've been feeling fine lately, so there's really nothing that's gone on to explain why, as I got up after watching an episode of House to get ready for bed, I began to feel like I was going to cry.
I realized I hadn't taken my shot yet, so I went over to get it out of the fridge, then over to my bathroom cabinet to get an alcohol swab, a gauze pad and a band aid. I set them out methodically, mechanically on my kitchen table, and then promptly put my hands on my hips in an act of surrender and burst into tears.
It's silly, really. I kind of feel ashamed. Why should I be crying just because I have to take a shot? I do this twice a week. It's old hat by now, so why the sudden, unexpected onslaught of tears and pity? I started laughing in between my sobs at how ridiculous me crying now was, but I couldn't deny a deep unwelling of anger and resentment that this has become my normal.
Why is it that I have to be OK with having an incurable disease again? I apparently seem to forget at odd, random moments that come on with no warning. But there I was, standing in my kitchen by myself, thinking that anyone who meets me now will only know me after. And for a split second, the fact that all of this- the pills, the shots, the doctor appointments, the actual having of an incurable, unpredictable disease- should be fine in any way felt like an absurd and ludicrous thing to ask of anyone, much less a single, 30 year old who has barely started her life.
I let my tears fall and then wiped them away, feeling a little embarrassed but trying to acknowledge what I was experiencing. This is one hell of a ride we are on, isn't it?
Now, it's time to go take my shot.