There. I said it. In my head I hear what I think is your response: Don’t like your life? Then change it.
Easier said than done. Thus the whining. I want things to change. I feel crushed by the weight of a thousand stones. Under stones you can only become sand.
13 times every freaking day.
13 times a day.
That’s a lot of juice. Every waking hour I drink 8 ounces of carrot juice, or carrot-and-apple juice, or disgusting-green-juice-made-from-wet-leaves-and-forest-mold. Every hour. That’s a lot of drinking. And peeing. Guess what else? Since the Juice Fairy does not visit this house, someone has to make the juice. Someone has to squish teeny-tiny pieces of vegetables and fruits through a cloth bag. Sometimes that someone is me. Sometimes it is my soulmate. Whoever makes it, it has to be done. Every hour. Every day.
Oh, sure. We streamlined things. Juices get made ahead of time. They look adorable lined up on the fridge-door shelf, a row of jewel-colored canning jars. Big whoop. Every day. Every freaking day.
Also? If I go anywhere? I get to carry a wee rad red cooler with cute little jewel-colored jars of juice. There I go, me and my cooler. Are you watching? Yay.
I hate carrots.
I eat 50 pounds of carrots a week. The average person eats 10,886 carrots in a lifetime. I’ll reach my lifetime quota next week.
Not only does nearly everything I eat taste of carrots, or is made from carrots, but what I actually do eat is eyestabbingly boring. Baked potato sound good? Sure, until you’re eating it absolutely naked of anything good. Butter? Salt? Not here. Bacon bits? Don’t make me laugh.
Baked potatoes sound good unless you’re eating TWO freaking baked potatoes. Every. Single. Day.
I miss my soulmate.
I love me-time. Now I get a lot of it. Five times a day, sometimes six, I spend 40 minutes alone in the bathroom, just me and a quart jar of coffee and Facebook, because it is Enema Time. And when I’m done? It’s my soulmate’s turn. That is, if he’s not off at Whole Foods getting endives and escarole for my DGJ (Disgusting Green Juice), or at the produce wholesaler picking up 25-pound bags of carrots and 50-pound bags of potatoes, or stomping around doing his best Mr. Surly impression because HIS life also sucks.
We finally sit down together at around 9pm, if he’s not going dancing or doesn’t have his men’s group. We have an hour. Never enough.
Plus? Our relationship became what it is in part from all our beautiful rituals. Coffee in the morning. Wine and cheese dates. Daily highlights. All gone now. Takes time to build rituals and most of ours disappeared overnight. Pffft.
I can’t think.
This is my brain on cancer. I forget things. Time stretches into forever. Last week? Feels like three weeks ago. Or time speeds up. Where did the past hour go? Didn’t I just DO an enema?
I have way too many Emo Days, puddled on the floor crying. Way too many Tired Days, curled up in a ball next to Miss Persnickety Kitty on the robin’s egg blue sofa. Way too many Not Making Sense Days. Once I weighed the success of a day by what I was able to accomplish. Now there is a long long list on a yellow pad of paper. Every day I hand off something on that list — MY list — to my soulmate, because my head just doesn’t work well enough to call Social Security about my disability, or my bank to pay a bill, or order the right number of supplements to take me through the next month.
I grew up believing that smarter people were worth more. And now I can’t remember words.
I can’t work.
The thing that I do that makes me uniquely ME and that helps people? I can’t do it. No, that’s not true. I can. Most days I can. But no one seems to know it. Nothing but crickets here.
Crickets do not pay the bills.
There’s no money.
This is very true.When you don’t work you don’t get money. I am on disability now. We get food stamps now. Everything else is being paid for by my credit card. The card has a limit. I am scared about that. What happens when we get there? How do I pay this card off?
My soulmate is awesome and amazing and WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE. But practically no one is hiring him either. Does he have time for marketing his talents? No, not when he’s crushing carrots into orangeness and bringing cases of red leaf lettuce in from the car.
There’s no time.
No time for writing.
No time for painting.
No time for cuddling.
Every hour there is something to do. A juice to drink. Juices to make. Baked potato. Enema. From 8 am to 10:30 pm. If the stars align and the clouds part and I don’t feel nauseated and have energy and my head works and I actually feel an urge to write, I get 10 minutes and then I have to get up and do something again.
Because I can do so little, Soulmate does what needs to be done. He is awesome at this, he really is. Talk about someone really stepping up! This man is right with me. I see it every day. But because he’s doing all the things I should be doing, there is way less of him now.
Life is passing me by.
I lie on the bathroom floor putting coffee up my butt while there are people out there eating sushi. Writing books. Making love. Driving cars. Being awesome. And here I am on the floor, looking at Facebook and USA Today. I suck.
My soulmate finally wants me to join him in Tango. Can’t.
Every day I write at least 3 blog posts in my head. They are still in there. Stuck. No time or energy to pull them out onto a page. By the time I have time and energy, that thing in my head will have moved on.
People are eating fabulous meals in restaurants, food that actually tastes good. Hi, pass me a naked baked potato, will you?
Love is being loved. Life is being lived. And I am on the bathroom floor, looking up at the ceiling.
Choice? What choice is this?
No one would choose this experience. I am pretty sure most of us would rather retain our right to chomp a sleeve of Pringles when we wanted. I chose this. I chose to try to heal my body this way, mostly because there were damn few alternatives. Western medicine laughs at me. Doctors and government officials look at me like they are looking at a person who will die soon. I know I have choices and I know I can go any time and have that steak or that sushi or that glass of wine, but I also know there are consequences to all choices. I made mine. I chose life.
This isn’t living.
Which brings us to the crux of things. I don’t believe I have the power to make enough change to make enough difference. I am tired, sick, and nauseated. How do I manifest a workshop in Hawaii where people pay me to be awesome in puka shell necklaces, or a book tour where people stand in line to read words I made on a page, when I don’t have enough energy to do my own laundry?
I need help and I don’t have the strength to ask for it.
I need change and I am not sure I deserve it.
I want goodness and I am not sure anymore that it exists for me.
Life is going on around me, without me. And here I am, on the bathroom floor.