By Lauren Randall
I spend most of my time dreaming. The most gratifying vision I have is of life on pause. I dream of the world completely stopping for everyone other than me. What will I do in this static world?
Sleep. I will sleep. Nothing more. Nothing less.
I dream that this sleep will take away everything: the fatigue, pain, neurological damage and every ‘red herring’ that cannot be quantified by the medical community.
I will wake to my ‘old body,’ my teenage body, the one I so shamelessly took for granted. The body I binged and purged from out of hate, the body surreptitiously stuck on the other side of the glass.
I didn’t think much about chronically ill people back then. I never wondered about their nostalgia for health, that intense pining their imagination could make so palpable.
For them, life could be this immensely beautiful view through a cracked and clouded windshield; every day spent futilely trying to clean it off from the inside. Despite the irrefutable knowledge that all that shit is just out of reach, the thought of doing nothing from the other side of the glass likely felt even more deceptively tragic.
I do that a lot. I refer to ‘them’ without including myself. I try to clean the glass from the inside knowing it will never fully penetrate the brown decrepit haze. I am enlightened enough to know that real acceptance –seeing beauty within the cracks and dirt– is where true healing and happiness will lie for me. But I cannot escape the fight, the quest to see the entire scene. Sometimes that makes me feel beautifully hopeful, sometimes that makes me feel like I am wasting what is left. Continue Reading…