Well, I really wanted to submit something, but I have no pictures of my paintings at the moment and it's midnight up here. And everything I've drawn over the past couple months is still in the process of being colored on my computer.
So I started looking through my old poetry - I've actually got a fair bit, and some of it's not half bad - and I came across this. Sorry to post something so morbid, but man, I remember the day I wrote this like it was yesterday.
We'd just read Yeats' The Second Coming in my English class, and it was my senior year, if memory serves. Anyway, I'd been having happy-fun-times with my disease, and my mom was insisting that we wake up early one morning on a weekend and go skiing. I wanted nothing more than to rest, since I really wasn't feeling the best and didn't have an entire day to devote to skiing while still managing my classwork effectively. I told this to my mom, complaining quite a bit about how crummy I felt. And this isn't just stuffy-nose crummy; this was joint-pain-so-bad-I-had-to-keep-myself-from-crying-in-Anatomy-class kind of crummy.
But, if you've never experienced it, living with a person with an autoimmune disease gets tiring. I admit that my family probably got pretty tired of me, being half-alive and all most of the time. And after a while, the distinction between my disease and my self got blurred in their minds. It always stayed separate in mine; I was not the burden that weighed on my body. But it's harder to keep that separated when you are the family only dealing with that person's behaviors, which are often incomprehensible to a healthy person. And, over time, the family gets mad at the disease, and some of that anger gets directed at the person, who in their mind IS the disease.
It's understandable to me, but boy, does that hurt. So it was that I woke up at 6AM on a Saturday, feeling like hell warmed over, and just blurting this all out on the paper before I started packing for a day at the mountain.
Looking back on this is interesting, because I no longer have that disease, and my family can now see me as the person that I always saw myself as. There's no anger anymore, and I no longer feel like I made a trade with Death for every day I woke up alive.
Sorry for the dreadfully long description.
I guess this piece written in sheer anger just means a lot more to me now than I'd expected it ever might.