A day in my life

I wake up, sweaty and disgusted with myself. Nausea. I think of how tired I am of waking up at 3am like clockwork with aching joints in my hands. I curl them, and uncurl them. I try to work out the pain so that I can sleep. and awake to gripping muscle spasms in my legs that make me limp for a day or two, which I hide. When they come I wish I had a bit in my mouth, I don't want to wake my slumbering husband nor the snoring small dog so very nestled between this spasm and my natural reflex to try and strech it, but it hurts so. My stomach and everything below churns and in powerful twirls,

I sometimes fall to floor and try to work out the spasms. Sometimes it works, other times it doesn't and I wish more for that bit. Simon stirs and watches me with remote interest and goes back to his deep sleep.

My alarm sings although my sleep and can only be described as a gentle sleep for hours and I sit up. I get dressed and hope anything is clean, I'm so tardy on the laundry I think to myself.
I try my makeup, one eye goes fine ... when I close the other for eyeliner and some mascera I am reminded that I am permanently blinded. I pause a moment but my eyes don't water in emotion and I wonder why I don't want to thrash.

Once at work I hope it'll just be ok. Whether it is, does not matter I just stare at the clock. The pen drops from my hand frequently in seemingly clumsiness, but it's that I can no longer hold anything for too long, and it hurts to do so although my pride bites at itself madly.
Home. Nausea. I grab the door knob and the growths on my hands immediately remind me of their presence, thier unforgiveing presence and the pain they offer to be touched. Shake it off.

I sit, pet the dogs.

Thinking how angry I am, how much I want to ..... do anything, but then I regain senses and I deal with it. I check myself for new lumps, as my doctor has asked me to. I stare at the red mark left from the drawing of blood that never reports a sudden recovery, and I just sigh.
I stare at my drawing board, a large drafting type board, and I wonder ... can I do it? I sit down and I draw. When it comes out wrong I wonder if I blame my disfugurements or my talent. I then stare to my violin and know well that venture is beyond approach. And my heart breaks clean in half.

And then I go to bed. Not in self pity, but but rather just trying to get along and hoping it's better out there.

-DM