grief for who you were, and who you might've been

 I am writing this because I am depressed and hopeless and sad.

I have no idea what I'm going to write. I just need to write something. I need to eject all these thoughts and feelings into some format, and these days writing is the only thing I can still do.

I may post this, or I may not. Who knows. I haven't exactly kept up with this blog that last few years. I want to get in the habit of writing more, whether it's blog posts or short stories or working on my scifi novel I started when I was ten. I can't dance anymore and I can't play my harp anymore and I just need some kind of outlet.

If you don't know, I've been in debilitating pain for over a year now. I've always experience pain, but in the past I wrote it off as dance injuries or that it was normal or that I was just plain weak. But in 2020 it suddenly got much, much worse and spread to new places and before I knew it I couldn't use silverware and had to use both hands to hold a book. My knees and ankles have become bad enough to where I use a cane (that I luckily bought from a thrift store years ago for a burlesque routine) to get around the apartment. I almost constantly wear braces on my elbows and compression gloves and often add my knee braces to the mix. I even went to the doctor (I hate doctors) and obediently went to specialist after specialist. No one could ever give me a real diagnosis, and no one seemed too concerned about the whole ordeal.

I'm still hoping and fighting for answers, but in the meantime there's an awful lot of waiting and pain. Turns out medical mysteries aren't like on House - where a highly trained team of professionals spend hours on your case trying to figure out the problem.

I never liked House very much. I didn't see what was so funny about a doctor being mean to patients and coworkers. My dad loved the show, appreciated how House treated "dumb idiots." Of course, my dad also likes the word libtard.

I've been sent to an arm specialist, an occupational therapist, a nerve study, a sleep clinic, and a mental health therapist who specializes in chronic pain. I finally asked to see a rheumatologist who I'll see next week.

Throughout all of this I've only gotten more depressed, and I've been unable to do any of the things that used to bring me joy - as well as the things that earned me money. Poor, depressed, and in pain is not a great combo, let me tell you.

Even if I finally get a diagnosis, if I finally get treatment, if I ever start feeling better and can function again... I know I'll still be depressed. I've been depressed my whole life and no one has ever been able to give me any kind of hope. Maybe I'm not trying hard enough. Maybe I'm just a dumb idiot patient in the world of House.

I feel like I'm constantly grieving something. All of my grandparents who died in the last five years. My dance mentor when I was growing up. Friends and family who don't talk to me anymore. Who I used to be before the pain settled in. Who I could've been if I had just been better.

I don't have a lot of experience with grief - most of the people I've loved who have died were old and had lived a long and fulfilling life. Sometimes I still get overwhelmed by memories, but in the end I can accept that they have moved on. But, selfishly perhaps, grieving for yourself never seems to stop. I'm still young. I haven't done anything great or made an impact on anyone's life. I'm not even dead. I'm just different, changed against my will. Desperately trying to find enough hope to keep going, to find some purpose, something greater than reading as many books as possible despite repeatedly being unable to concentrate on a book.

I used to be a little prideful of my hands. People said I had musician hands - long, slender fingers that precisely pressed keys, strummed guitar strings, and plucked melodies from a harp. I could express emotions through a simple port de bras in ballet, sending energy out of my fingertips to the farthest seat in the balcony.

Now my fingers are swollen. My pinkies are crooked, bending in unnatural directions. When I try to write by hand the words are illegible. When I try to type I have to constantly go back and correct typos because my accuracy has diminished. I'm afraid to try to play my harp. When at rest my fingers naturally curl into claws befitting an old wizened crone. 

I have nothing against old wizened crones. I've often had fantasies about being a little old person with an expansive library and multiple photo albums dedicated to every cat I've ever befriended. Of having a complete matching tea set to offer to guests and to invite them to browse my library and read whatever they like.

I just didn't plan on becoming that at 27.