The disease has damaged my heart, but it doesn’t have to do any more damage if I can get proper treatment. Of course, proper treatment is expensive... I need help, but since I don’t believe in getting or asking for something for nothing, for (and with) my heart, I propose the following exchange.
There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.
I've been trying to ignore the tug in my gut that has persisted since I first read about this story yesterday. It was the stark inhumanity of it for sure; the sheer violence; the unchecked toxic masculinity; the questions about how is it that the ability to find a jersey is easier than locating a publicly; pinging-off-cell-phone-towers [...]
pressed to my chest by a bra made for movement; still.
Remember those posts: I am a miracle (that's my story and I'm sticking to it). and Didn't Yesterday say you couldn't yet you did? Mrs. Burke read them and thought they were worth sharing. So I'll be sharing them. On November 16th at 6 on the radio (in my Donna Summer voice). Tune in!
So there we were living our happily ever after when our communication kept getting interrupted. The signal was poor. Eventually our conversations were curt and stilted—we probably secretly blamed each other for the poor signal. Turns out we were both wrong. (As far as doctors have so far surmised. This is idiopathic—without known cause).
The training, racing, and creative process...is a triumph over the physical and psychic conditions just outside the parameters of control which would censor and stilt performance.
It is no easy demon to face who has dressed you and your entire context as “fine.”
Look, we all perform ourselves; the version of ourselves we choose to present to the world is a performance. Hers seemed a performance of the worst kind—poorly played (she ain’t e’en have her script straight) and manipulative; the kind that seeks gain for itself at the expense of others.
Stop pissing on our heads and calling it rain.