The day has turned me over and I begin again. There are people who seem to be grateful about it with their text messages and flowers and well wishes and fluffy positive hopeful words. I smile when they are facing me and cry when they look away. This part is the hard part. The before- the pain, the anxiety, the self-flagellation- that was normal, needed, usual and common. But now I have to breathe deeply or else, sit upright or else, move or else. If something happens to me that I could have prevented it’ll be my fault or else. The before part was my reactions, fair and right to what had happened to me and actually considering I was doing better than many who had suffered similarly in that I have kept myself out of jail and fed and fucked and with pretty decent legal drugs but now there’s panic, a fret, a fear-do I actually love being alive? Do I love sunsets and yawning and warm showers? Do I adore pancakes and the beach and dancing to the beats my heart catches? I could have died, should have died so many times and so many times I keep waking up even those times when I tried hard not to or didn’t really put in any effort to continue to do so, and its been 4 full days now since the 2 surgical procedures- either one could have been the sense ender, peace giver but no, per my track record at this point, I’ve survived. I’m wondering now if I love the pain of surviving. The struggle to keep going against all odds- is this really what my ancestors have bequeathed me a mutant-level regenerative ability when in fact, nobody cares if I exist or not?
So now, where do I pull power from? Do I change? Do I even know without the body parts I’ve lost who I am or what I have become? Just another one in 8 billion with an incomplete understanding of what’s what and against every effort and volition somehow refuses to give life up…

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