I walk into my dream job, fully working there for 3 years now. It’s 10 am. What. The. Fuck.
I’m the woman that used to rise at 4 am, work a 12 hr shift, and go to the gym.
Now I walk into the cube farm, my cheeks burning with the distinct emotion that clouds every corner of my life these days: Shame. Shame at my limitations. Shame at my lifestyle that I still cannot help but see as laziness and slothfulness. Shame at the inflammation attacking every cell in my body that makes me tired beyond any realm of “tired” I can even try to describe, hence why I’m walking into the office at 10 am. And walking with a distinct limp at 31.
An hour later a man snarls something at me because the floor is wet from being freshly mopped. I’m having a shitty day. I smirk back something witty and he walks away breathlessly, his back to me as if we never spoke.
The janitor, a lovely lady who is working hard, giggles at this. I smile and compliment her work. Figures he can’t take what he dishes out.
A half hour later I feel bad. This is probably why I don’t have many friends. I’m a bitch.
Everyone left when I became sick. I couldn’t go out anymore. I was too tired. Chemo wiped me out. And no one wants to hang out next to you in a bed when you’re 25. Now at 31, I’m still alone, even in a worse way in that I’ve made friends and have had them tell me not to contact them, or they go AWOL.
Again… Shame. Shame at who I am. I might be a monster. People don’t want me. At least the people I’m around, it seems. Shame.
whenlupusattacks 