I’m crawling out of a flare that felt like it would never end. The kind where your body throws new symptoms at you like darts, and you’re the target taped to the wall. Physically, mentally, emotionally…I’m wrung out. I keep fantasising about pressing pause on life so I can just rest, heal, maybe breathe…but the world doesn’t work that way. The bills don’t stop, the dog doesn’t stop, the body doesn’t stop misbehaving.
So I’ve doubled down on clean living. No preservatives, no processed crap, no “sugar-free” imposters, no flavouring unless I pick the damn leaf myself. Butter? Gone. Even my sugar-free, salt free, preservative free peanut butter got the boot. It’s brutal. But listen, if anyone thinks they’re prying my single-shot cappuccino out of my hands, they’d better come armed. I will bite. And not in a sexy Twilight way.
And then, there’s my boobs. Out of nowhere…enormous. Like, biblical-plague-level enormous. What the actual fuck? I know I’m in peri, been there a while, but does this mean I’ve moved up a level? I feel like a teenager in puberty but without the energy and way too much sass. Add “see gynaecologist” to the ever-growing medical to-do list, which is already topped with an MRI and a specialist visit that my pricey medical aid won’t cover. Health feels like a full-time job these days, except it’s the kind where the boss hates you and the pay is zero.
At least Bugsy knows. He’s been equal parts terrorist and angel…destroying toys, digging craters in the yard, chewing shoes…but the minute he senses tears, he’s there. He licked my face clean the other night when I was falling apart, and on Sunday, when my Mum had a little cry, he climbed onto her lap and did the same for her. The dog has better bedside manners than half the doctors I’ve seen over the last 20 years.
Then I made the mistake of looking through old photos. Me, thin, fit, glowing. Skinny AF. Sure, I was sick then too…scared of eating or drinking anything because I didn’t know if I could get rid of it again…but wow, those legs, that jawline, that flat little tummy and those teeny tiny perfect boobs. Now I see myself and it’s… different. Softer. Rounder. A little padded, a little tired, a bit wobbly. I do all the “right” things, but my body shrugs and does what it wants. It’s frustrating, yes, but also a little funny, like my metabolism decided to take early retirement without telling me, “Fuck you bitch, I’m outta here!”. Probably sipping cocktails in Mauritius without me. And those boobs. Did I mention the boobs?
Some days it feels like grief, losing versions of myself over and over again. Other days I can laugh about it. Today, I’m somewhere in between…sipping my cappuccino like it’s the Holy Grail (which it is), glaring at the mirror, and cuddling the dog who refuses to leave my side or stop chewing my leather booths.
Daily stats:
Coffee: 1 (so far)
Boobs: 2 (but enormous, deserve their own postcode)
Tears: 3
Items destroyed: 2 (RIP boot straps and foxy, the so called indestructible toy)
Garden holes: 5 (large enough to bury medical aid paperwork)
Medical aid tantrums: infinite
Hope: stubbornly hanging on
