I am back in the summerhouse, and I can finally say with no exaggeration that the weather is nothing less than LOVELY. When the sun finally decides to pay us a visit, the Danish summers are difficult to compete with. There is absolutely no need to go anywhere else, weather- and temperature-wise. What a privilege it is to be able to spend all day lounging around in a lawn chair with turning the pages of the book you are reading being the only strain.
I may have mentioned this before, but I have officially no longer on any sort of pain killers. I felt one morning that I no longer needed them, and have been just fine ever since. My hip is no longer in pain, except for the few times where I accidently flex the muscles surrounding that area. That hurts. Mentally, I am also on the right track. Last night, 12:30am, was the “anniversary” of the accident. That’s what I refer to it as, both in English and in Danish. I cannot believe it’s been a month. I also can’t believe how much I have changed in that month. There has been so much internal processing and inward-looking that I am positive I will never be the same again. As a person, I am no better or worse, just different.
Yesterday, when we were driving to the summerhouse, my grandmother asked me how I felt this whole thing had affected me, as far as mentality goes. At least I think that is what she asked me. It is horrible, but I think I remember my own process of reflecting better than the question itself. All I know is that I told her that I no longer believed in fate. I no longer believe that I have been singled out as the carrier of all of these diseases because I can carry this amount of weight on my shoulders. Throughout my life, I have always believed that the consequences of my chronic illnesses would at one point come to a halt. That someone would say, enough is enough, we are going to give her a break and let all the shit she has going on already become status quo. I am not a religious, and yet I talk as if I was once a believer. I guess I was a believer. I must have believed in something, or else it wouldn’t be possible for my illusions to have become shattered. Whatever beliefs I had smoldered between my fingers that night.
All of this sounds awfully depressing, but I feel more clear-sighted than ever. The thing is, I am actually able to accept this change within myself. I feel strongly that it is here to stay, and while twenty-three is a little young to become such a
bitter old woman realist, it is actually liberating. It has led to me buying 200 dollars worth of clothing as a way of dressing this new person (don’t worry, I could afford it). I bought her a pair of sunglasses and a new bag, cardigans, shirts; all stuff that I have never permitted the old person, old me, to enjoy. The old me has waited for a day where all the pieces would fit together; where I had the right body, dress-size, and life to be able to a person worth investing in. Isn’t that horrible and masochistic? The new me realizes that if you put shit in one hand and wishes in the other hand, shit will fill up faster, and I just need to live in the moment and dress for the occasion.
Needless to say, it helps to write about it. All of this might read as insane nonsense, and that is okay. I accept that, too. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a lawn chair and a book waiting for me. Toodles!