Wednesday, February 9, 2022

My Bumps in the Night

 Hello world.

I know that I have been absent from pretty much all social activity, save for the random Facebook memories that I repost that fill me with nostalgia. They give me comfort and some last lingering thread to the real world. On the flipside of that coin, my personal reality, pain is what really traps me within myself and steals me away from further interactions, such as this. Right now, I'm having a "pain remission" that allows me a limited amount of time to actually speak. Well, type, actually. So, I feel like I should use this time wisely to "talk" to you, whoever you are that is reading this.

My pain. Let's put it all on the table. Over the past year or so (time is hard to grasp in these days of perpetual isolation), I've started to develop what we think is rheumatoid arthritis. My hands go absolutely bonkers. Fingers and joints swell, my wrist has developed a lump, and then there's the burning sensations all through the palms from what we can only believe is nerve damage. All of this is totally random, mind you, so it's been quite the interesting roller coaster of misery. That's the bulk of the main physical issue.

Secondary to the shit-show that are my hands, I've started developing... well... bumps. Noticeable growths on other parts of my body, all connected to the bone. They are hard lumps that usually do not cause any discomfort. There's one on my arm, a couple on my knees, one prominent one on my foot, and I'm sure there are others not yet discovered. Probable riddled with the damn things. This revelation is... troubling, yes, but has really started to prompt me to delve within. I'll explain...

Aside from the obvious depression that comes so easily to me after long isolation, most self-inflicted, there's been a lingering thought... of death. Don't get me wrong, I don't WANT to die, those days are very far behind me. Besides, I failed all of those, so why try again? I joke, so chill. I mean, I have been thinking about the inevitability, or the possibility, of my last days. I've actually, chillingly so, made such beautiful serene peace with it and embraced the idea that this will all pass for me. Eventually...

I think about what I leave behind. Friends, family, fur babies, all my loved and cherished, but is there really a legacy? Is there something poignant about Brandon "Brad" Nead Sharp? Sure, there's a silly little book out there by a Zaxxon Q Blaque, whoever the fuck that is anymore. I haven't seen that bastard for years, which is why I'm doing all of this. He was my legacy. He was my muse. He was my... soul. I hear a whisper from him as I'm typing this, which is always the case when creating, but now it's soft and muffled. Like trying to talk through the clenched hand of death.

Yes, of course we are trying to see a doctor or a specialist, but they are not responding. As if they know their help would be useless since I can't afford to be alive in America. Even striving for some sort of disability assistance seems fruitless with all of the stories and actual personal witnessing of the failed system continuously denying the sick. This entire thing is going to be a struggle, even without the symptoms. America- Land of the (it's) free (to die). It's cheaper to not exist... for everyone involved.

Sometimes my mind is clear. The way it was when I started typing. Riled up for a literary mission of some sort, not knowing where it's going or even the point of this wordy mess. Now, the fog is knocking at the door and the pain is crawling through the windows and settling into my wrist and hands. I think about death a lot now, and I even think I see it. In my periphery. It seems closer...