Today is Day 1 of my new project. I let it be what it needs to, but mostly it’s about writing to discover hidden places, as Bjork would say. Or blind spots, or tender ones.
Art may not relate to the particular post; that is fine—I want to make my time here count. If I’m going to engage, I’m going to engage, even if just myself, my ipad, this square of 9.
D A Y 1 // T E N D E R • T H I N G S .
That day everything went piercfully white and I hit my head on the doorframe.
For the next couple of hours I was going in and out, white to color, mono to stereo, shivering. All I could think of was how weird this period is. Notabene, It is strange how much this word “weird” can handle.
Today, as I’m waiting for my ultrasound mostly of my left ovary, the Queen of Batons Q♦️, as I call her because she definitely feels all my business endeavors, low and high, I count on miracle.
It is nothing. Nothing, comparing to — maybe even you. Just a cyst here and there, every so often, unfuckinginvited.
But, being so clean (I admit, I overdid coffee in the past and I overdo stress notoriously) I ask myself if I can have any control over this tic-tac-toe.
There is also shame. Shame due to making myself alienated from any dis-ease possibility and preaching it. As a young, fit ex-acrobat with green juices, supplements costing 300/month I wonder how am I suposed to understand that there are forces unrelated to beets fermation craze, iodine drops, stinky pills from crushed ovarian parts (yep) and fasts. “I’ve been a good girl, why are you still here?” — I’m asking her.
That day, a couple of years ago, I joined Facebook’ endo group (left already, not wanting to build stories about it, or wear patches, or any kind of acknowledgment of it, to not feed the sleeping monster) and prayed to Mother Mary.
As I will lay on the ultrasound table today, in hands of Other Mary (a genius doctor), I hope healing happens fast. Even if through her laughter and warm hands.
Today I convince myself that all I carry within is a pearl in my oyester.