I Don't Care About Silver Linings
My medical past will singe your eyelashes.
Run. Away. Now.
Though this condition isn’t catching, it is heavy enough to hold you in a dark place.
Beware reader! Look away.
The elevator out of hell was a slow, slow ride. Friends flocked, open mouthed, to my hospital rooms as if my medicals were a horror flick that had to be experienced—in person.
I used my medical unrest to prove my strength and my victimhood at the same time. My specialty was airing my problems for all to see. Though woe made me interesting, I was an envy to none.
Disasters collected me.
Life was ugly. Big. Foul. Awful. Terrifying. Sticky.
After twenty years of focusing on the difficulties that raged through my cells, I noticed something. Something small.
There, under those medical shadows, there were pieces of my life that—worked, even in chaos.
I was there. Right there.
There was a sweetness, barely visible. It was a version of myself that wasn't thwarted by my medicals.
I was not my problems?
I was a combination of overbearing difficulties with an underbearing essence, and my essence was the most interesting part of me.
It was playful and sought adventure. I traveled. And fed my curiosity. And loved. And lost love. And wrote it all down. People stopped asking about my medicals. I pretended not to notice.
Once I caught my breath, I grew taller. And calmer.
These days you don’t have to worry about me sliming you with my problems; I’ve stopped subjecting listeners to the haughty game, “I bet you an hour of your time that I can depress you with my story!”
Because I’ve learned something in my rollercoaster life: I don’t care about silver linings. Shit’s silver lining stinks. I’m reached for the part of myself that sings under the shadows.
A song of me: my essence.
My story includes the entire wheel of fortune—including the riches.
They’re already here.