The year has begun its final tumble toward the exit.
So many things have added their weight to the push that first started its stumbling.
I walked out of a fulltime job, a "green collar" job running an environmentally friendly cleaning service, at the end of the summer. I couldn't keep my mind focused, I was stressed out all the time, and when the owner and I came to anger and yelling I just walked out.
I'd started performing for some femdom pr0n out in the suburbs, and would make as much money in six hours as I did in two weeks at my "real job." It was a bizarre feeling, but it was just like the acting I did in High School, in the long run.
Despite biking twelve miles a day, the new medication I'd started taking for fibro was making me bloat and gain weight. I look at pictures of myself at that time and I cringe. I was pasty and puffy and I weighed almost thirty pounds more than I did ten years ago.
I spend almost all my time now in bed or tucked up in the sunroom.
It's so hard to walk or stand. The ground slips and stutters under me. I panic at bars, need to sit with my back to a wall and drink fast, drink til the leg cramps stop. Smile and talk loud about my cat, about Memphis, but always always I end up talking about being Sick.
It's becoming all I am.
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