I have not written in this blog for several days. I have been so worn down by the side effects of this treatment, and there never seemed to be a moment where I could find the freedom and the peace to express myself. The doctors have taken me off the Protease Inhibitors, and I have finished the 12-week cycle. This week must will be revealed, but that can be saved for later. The dermatologist gave me a shot of steroids in my butt and for two days it felt like there was a chemical war being fought inside my body. Powerful weapons of medicine were coming face-to-face with each other in the ring, but I was far from an observer. I took every blow, and I felt the fight rattling in my veins and under my skin.
As I was sitting in my daily oatmeal bath tonight to soothe the itching, I noticed that the wounds slowly are starting to heal (my whole chest is screaming right now) and leaving scars behind. The scars provided a visceral realization that I certainly knew but perhaps never experienced on such an intimate level: I am never going to be the same again. Never going to be what I was. My legs and arms will bear the marks of this treatment for the rest of my life. And my skin might never be the same.
Who thinks about their skin al day long? Who has thirty bottles and jars and tubes of ointment and cream and lotion all over their house? Who does laundry every day because his towels and bedding and night wear are covered in dead skin and medical residue? Who is afraid to walk outside in a short sleeve shirt and shorts because he does not want the damage to be seen? Who wears different clothes than before, who eats different foods, who stays inside during the day because his skin is photo-sensitive?
Jesus Christ, what a fucking complainer! What did you expect? What dreams have you surrendered? What grandiose delusions no longer cradle you in the arms of future success at night?
I have changed. This has changed me. It is and was a crucible and I never quite knew the cost. Now what do I do with the ways and days of hands and the rest of my life and will I be loved? Sorry... the rawness of this writing is bothering me as well. I am a master at eviscerating myself. I am the victim if I choose to be of the chemical warfare on and under my skin, and it is so exhausting.
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| Why is there not a male counterpart to this image? Why a Woman? |
Who thinks about their skin al day long? Who has thirty bottles and jars and tubes of ointment and cream and lotion all over their house? Who does laundry every day because his towels and bedding and night wear are covered in dead skin and medical residue? Who is afraid to walk outside in a short sleeve shirt and shorts because he does not want the damage to be seen? Who wears different clothes than before, who eats different foods, who stays inside during the day because his skin is photo-sensitive?
Jesus Christ, what a fucking complainer! What did you expect? What dreams have you surrendered? What grandiose delusions no longer cradle you in the arms of future success at night?
I have changed. This has changed me. It is and was a crucible and I never quite knew the cost. Now what do I do with the ways and days of hands and the rest of my life and will I be loved? Sorry... the rawness of this writing is bothering me as well. I am a master at eviscerating myself. I am the victim if I choose to be of the chemical warfare on and under my skin, and it is so exhausting.
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