I Don't Care About Silver Linings

January 19, 2016

 

 

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.

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