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?

No.

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.