Last night of I wrote a letter to my illness. It was full of expletives.
Among my sentiments were the words: “You are not here to teach me a lesson or humility. You are not my friend. You are a ridiculous ragbag of pathetic symptoms. Go **** yourself, you miserable, mitochondria-disrupting loser. You think you have won. But the person I was before you stuck your poxy neb [nose] in is still within me.”
I continued: “Yes, that child who could run like the wind, the one who could dance all night, the girl who could run from the nightclub in the dark to her home in minutes, the one who called walk miles and miles, up mountains, across moors, around London. How dare you disrupt all of that! You robbed me of my life with of my husband, of children, of experiences, of opportunity, of peace.”
Sometimes I just don’t know what God is playing at!
(There was more but this gives you a flavour. I found the writing therapeutic.)
I then listened to the hate-filled but cathartic ‘Sorry’ by nu-Guns n Roses on my headphones and scribbled down some pertinent lyrics. The whole song suited my mood and situation but here are the first lines:
“You like to hurt me
You know that you do
You like to think
In some way
That it’s me
And not you”