A little self-hate. :/

Pain, so much of it. I can feel it in my arms, my hands, my sides. I'm bursting open with all of it and there's no one around that can sew me back up.
Pills are making me tired. I should sleep while I still have the chance but I'm much too stubborn and stupid for that. My fingers are adapting to being frozen in time, acting as if they are surrounded in fast-drying cement.
Tomorrow marks treatment round two in order to get me working again. Meanwhile I go on to short-term disability and get fucked sideways on income.
I'm almost ready to go back to New York. If this treatment doesn't work it's what I am going to do. Just go back to New York and get ready to roll over and die. There's no point to living like this. How can this even be considered or compared to living? I fill out a sheet, honestly, about how I'm feeling mentally and it goes ignored. I know I'm depressed, I know I'm having suicidal tendencies.. it's difficult for me to come out and say it. It's like admitting defeat or showing weakness, something I've never been able to do. That sheet is my cry for help and it's just going to get filed away and ignored. Waste of a perfectly good tree, if you ask me.
Everything has lost it's flavor and luster, I'm too busy worrying about things I can't control. It's just paper. It's just things. None of it matters when you are dead, in that case it just becomes someone elses problem. Not mine. What good is worrying about it? So what if I lose my car? It's not like I can drive it anyway. So what if I lose the roof over my head, will anyone out there actually allow me to become homeless? Homeless and sick, I think there are agencies for that.
The worst part of all of this, this entry took me more than two hours to write. I miss my hands.

-D

Ugh. Again? Really?

My attempt at a brave face during a round of steroids.

I wish I could wri te all of my fruustrations ou t without so much pain. With each relapse I feel like I lose ano trher piece of digni ty and an even larger por tion of who I am. I used to be so s tr ong when it came to figh ing this disease, I've lost that. I forget who that person was. With each bit of steroids my flesh fills out bit by bit unt il I'm just a rounded bit of dough. I'm playdouggh being stretched ou t and slammed into t iny puddles of mush. '

I won' t apologize for my typing and I won' ttake the time to edi t or spellcheck, because t his is wha t his disease has taken from me. My hands are useless. I feel useless. I can't take care of myself. I haveSteven he re taking care of me but how long befor e he grows weary of my neediness, my r oid r age an my anger and bolts? Could I seriously blame him? No, I'm no t sure I'd ghave the heaert to stick around ei ther.

I'm just so tired of fighting. What am I fighting for anyway? Resisting the urge to just roll over and die... I don' t know if I have trhge energy for that anymore. I'm just..exhausted.