Fuzz.  Brain fuzz.

Of the stories that I remember from my childhood, there are two that relate: my great-uncle on my father’s side had multiple sclerosis, dying from related complications, and my paternal aunt was also diagnosed with MS at some point.

I know things like diet and exercise affect the brain in a very real way, but I can’t help feeling that I’m dated, too.

My aunt seems okay, if my hateful father’s words can be trusted.  He seems to care deeply for his mother, but his female siblings seem to contribute to his misogynistic worldview.  (It’s okay, he’s Catholic – that’s just to be expected, right?)  On Catholicism: I was raised to be Catholic, as well.  I had CCD classes during the week, at which time I asked questions, both aloud and internally, that further alienated me from the ‘good’ children.  I went to church almost every week.  My Catholic church wasn’t like the majority of churches in OK – they were more anti- than social.  My father was always a hateful man, and his family is deeply religious, so those two things must be related, right?

Anyway, I can’t think straight.

Sometimes I wonder why I bother trying to keep track of it all.  Does any of it matter?  Do I even matter?

I always thought I’d be something fantastic.  Apparently, when my mom tried to teach me to cook as a young child I told her I didn’t need to know because I’d have people to do that for me someday.  I thought I’d be rich and famous.  Instead I am, while generally not squeezed so tight as to be completely uncomfortable, living paycheck to paycheck through my loving husband’s generous salary.

Bills.  Medical bills.  The big squeeze.  I have years and years of them which we can’t even touch yet.  I’m still sick, aren’t I?

What the fuck is for-profit healthcare and why does it exist?  Why even have a Hippocratic Oath?

Ramble, mutter, nothing matters.

I miss true mania.  I miss not being afraid of misstepping in every conversation, too many directions.  I’m terrified of what people think of me.  Terrified that they’re right.  “She needs help.”  “What’s wrong with her?”  “Did you see all those pill bottles? She must have a terrible illness.”  And now I cry.  

I want to write – a book, a poem, a love letter to myself.  Instead I type in circles, fighting my way out of this boxed mind.

I wish I had a smoke to smoke, even if it were just vapor.  I want my bad habits to help me out of this funk.  How much sense does that make?  I haven’t had a real cigarette in five years.  I – relatively recently – purchased a rechargeable menthol-ish Swiffer package.  I liked it.  My husband did not.  He worries about my heart, my blood pressure [raise the roof], not to mention the unknown chemicals packed into those mysterious sticks and how they might affect our pets when inhaled secondhand.  A vaping place opened locally.  I want to visit.  Even if it’s nicotine-free, perhaps it will help open my mind, the doors that have been shuttered to me for so long.  They say they are made from food-safe ingredients.  I say “sure”.  I’m skeptical of everything, except for some things.  If I want to believe in something, it becomes true enough.

Today I have work to do, un-fun work.

Do people change?  I did.  Did K?  Does he ever think about me, maliciously or with an open mind?  Does it matter?  

Nope.

I’ll probably be dead in a few years, months, weeks; whatever.  Time is a runny egg.  Gross and just a yolk.  Ha.

I am both empty and full.

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