I have been having a pity party for the last few months.
I didn’t really invite anyone, so don’t worry if you missed it. It wasn’t a very good party. It was mostly me sitting on the couch, feeling sorry for myself while watching television shows starring Timothy Olyphant and Jesus. But to the accidental guest who inadvertently strolled into my selfish shindig, I offer my humblest apologies.
Sorry I wasn’t there.
I was busy buying into the premiss that there is something wrong with me. Well, there is something wrong with me. Many things. For one, I’m a selfish asshole who thinks she is smarter than the whole universe (well, OK, except for Spock… Maybe). I’m often lazy and when I look into the mirror in the morning, trust me, there is nothing there to like.
But I’m sure that’s what every one thinks when they take a good hard look at themselves (right? Back me up here, people!). And while the rest of you might not have been branded with M.E or CFS or whatever, I’m sure there is something wrong with you too. (Again, this is not the time to disagree with me. But if you do, give me a call. I’m happy to explain to you what’s wrong with you. I made a list.)
I forgot I’m not the only person on the planet who might be having a hard time and I forgot that I alone don’t have a monopoly on feeling miserable (yet…but the papers have been filed). Instead I just was angry and hurt and sick and felt horrible and I really didn’t care about much more than that. It got to that point that where one slightly shitty thing would happen, and I would let it get me down. In a really big, I don’t want to get out of bed anymore, way.
But no more, I say!
Now I just think: What would Rocky do?
Would he get knocked out his opponent threw one punch at him??
(The answer is no)
And whatever a brain damaged old boxer can do, I can do better.
So, for the past week I haven’t been lying in my bed that much. I have been going to the gym in an attempt to get fit again (Ha, as if that’ll ever happen). And whenever I start to feel sorry or desperate or just plain tired… I just say “fuck you” to the universe.
I’m sure this whole CFS/ME thing will get me down again. But like Rocky -or those guys from that song– I’ll get back up again… and I’ll sucker punch it right back in the face.
My parents have been bugging me about what I’m going to do with my life (A privilege they get since they graciously allowed me back into their house without too much complaining). But I’ll be damned if I know. I might be feeling tired forever, but I can’t just roll over and accept that. Because when Mr. T towered over Rocky, did he just give in? No, he beat the crap out of Mr. T in a very cathartic way.
And I will do the same. Except that Mr. T scares the shit out of me when he glowers at people. So, I’ll probably won’t punch him in the face. I’ll just point at something behind him and say: “What’s that?!” and make a run for it and he won’t even know what didn’t hit him.
So yea, in conclusion… I won’t get knocked down by Mr. T because he’s just a metaphor and metaphors can’t hurt you. I think. Unless they’re really bad. (And this one most certainly isn’t!)
And in another and final conclusion (I’m such an eloquent writer, aren’t I?) While my parents may think I’m really maniacally stupid for laughing in B.A. Baracus’ metaphorical face (They’re not very good with pop culture references), I can’t sit on the sofa and watch another season of Justified anymore (no matter how good it is). Because that life is seriously depressing.
So for now, I’ll just go on with the hopes that everything will be fine some day and that I can totally kick the shit out of this thing.
And that might be monumentally stupid.
But stupidity never stopped Rocky… and neither will it stop me.
And to all my friends and family, and especially my boyfriend (You’re totally not imaginary, right??) a very big sorry that I’ve been a selfish grumpy asshole. I’m sure I’ll do it again.
But I’m glad you all love me regardless.