Why are my legs so weak. What is happening. How much more can I write about illness, a boring and common experience. My own illness seems to be defined by what it’s not, what it makes impossible, or, more murkily, less possible, a distance it keeps reestablishing between you and what you thought was yourself or your life. Absence, distance, alienation, boredom. You weren’t there, you didn’t go. A kind of friction between you and the social world you’re meant to live in, where maybe you can’t get to your job, if you have a job. Illness is the opposite of a job. Good luck.
"You don’t have to do it perfect. You can live with a few bad thoughts in the mix. You can live in the regular messy place that’s not hell."
"I just want to be in the mix. Hi, I’m here. I’m real. I didn’t disappear. I’m still happening."
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