I think I'm ready for just one job

I guess that's as good of a place to begin as any. Also: I'm bone tired. Also: I'm kind of ill. Also: I'm worn out.

This isn't supposed to be my serious blog. That one's over on another site with locked entries, so the general populace of far-flung friends and family don't have to suffer through all of the less than idyllic thoughts that come into my head. Those thoughts are observed by a select group of other whiners and complainers and ruminators who can deal with said thoughts. But still.

This hasn't been the best week or two, as far as relaxing and energizing goes. I'm in the middle of a copyedit schedule that happens four times a year, had 2 freelance articles due, am working normal hours at the lab, and am at the bar this week, too. Oh, and I'm writing my book proposal in my spare time. Har har.

I'm just starting to wonder when I'm going to get to a point where things are going to get easier. The book proposal has been invigorating and difficult to write, in part because I've realized that the histories I'm proposing to document are impossible to separate from my personal history with a chronic illness.

I realize that everyone has their crosses to bear, but the chronic illness affects literally every aspect of my waking life (and some sleeping times, too, when my bloodsugar drops). It's something I don't talk about a lot, and I hate to think of myself as a sick person. I don't, I really don't. But it affects everything. And I hate that. It makes me paranoid about sickness, about getting cuts or infections (the latter of which I have at the moment), about how I can map out my future.

I realized, while writing this proposal, that so much of my life has seemed internally rushed due to the disease factor. I just worry about not having time. And yet where has that gotten me? I wrote a novel, but it sits in a drawer. I am in love with someone I want to spend the rest of my life with, but I worry that he will reassess his affections, because I am too hard, or complication-ridden....I really thought I would have more things accomplished at this point. A place to call me own. A book. A family.

In part I am interested in so much in the world, and that's made it hard to focus. And I'm good at a lot of things, too, so my interests and attentions are disparate and unfocused. I realize I'm repeating words here, a very unwriterly thing to do. I look at the world, at my cousin whose birth announcement was emailed yesterday, at friends who propose trips without worry of health complications, at people who leave jobs without worries of health care providers or medications.

People have called me brave over and over again. I wonder if they know how often I'm scared out of my mind. At whether that infection will worsen, at how I can go about finding another job that will take someone with a chronic illness, at when I can see things when they're not behind the lens of fear and illness. Ugh.

When I was diagnosed 17 years ago I was told that there would likely be a cure within 10 years. I no longer think in terms of a cure. I think in terms of survival. And of finding joy. But right now, it's a little hard to find that.