You all know I have been sick for a while – sorry if I kept kvetching, but it’s my reality, my truth, and, let’s be real here, my blog – two autoimmune diseases with no relief in sight. Then, I found an osteopath who specialized in my autoimmune disease and offered me hope. He ran a ton of tests and it turns out, I have a chronic fungal infection in my blood stream that was exacerbated by the toxic mold in our old house. There are tiny lesions on my lungs from breathing the mold spores every day for two years, I have a white blood cell count that’s scary high, and I have to go through some drastic treatment that is not covered by my insurance to get some relief and possibly be back to my former self.
For the last two years, I have been unable to hold a job with any consistency because I am always sick. Luckily, being a freelance writer allows me a little wiggle room for periods of unemployment, but I’ve never straight up not been able to work. As a result, we are some broke-ass mofos over here. We moved out of Fungus Abbey to save money, yes, but it’s because we have no money. None. I’ve had lean times in my adult life, but nothing like this and nothing that ever involved my responsibility to other people (ie. Husbandito and The Juggernaut). I feel like a loser. I feel like I have failed. I feel like I should have just bit the bullet and gone to law school instead of following my dream of being a writer and my financial life would be better. I would be miserable, but there would be a little money in the bank. That’s worth it, right?
There are two fungi at work here: the one slowly trying to literally kill my body and the one that is figuratively killing my soul. I try to have hope. I try not to feel completely defeated every day. I try to keep my head up and greet each day with a new attitude and outlook on life. But these “tries” are covered in mold and illness and despair and I just don’t know if I can do it anymore. I am so exhausted.
So I am putting it out in the world as to not curl up in the fetal position, scream-crying, and eating my own hair. If we do, in fact, reap what we sow, I have been a real fucking dickhead.