I am the luckiest… or am I?

Luck is such a subjective thing.

I have been told, multiple times by multiple people, that I’m lucky.
That I’m lucky to not have to work. To go to school. That I have all the free time I could want.
That I can just loaf around and play video games/read/watch whatever I want.
That I get in home services, like PCA and home help. That I’m possibly moving into assisted living (well, most likely and it’s about a 95% chance).
Lucky. Sure.

I spend every day of my life in pain. Every. Day. I cannot tell you what it’s like to not be in pain.
I throw up several times a week. My weight is now officially underweight. My body is falling more and more apart. I am sick all the time. My doctors express constant concern.
I am shuffled from doctor to doctor, specialist to specialist.
I am lonely. So incredibly lonely.

I have lost friends over it. Because I can’t keep commitments. Because I “flake out”.
Because they don’t, or can’t, understand what it’s like.

I fight for my services. I fight for my medications.
I deal with providers who don’t give a shit and decide that I’m not worth seeing.
That I’m not worth working with.
That their needs are greater than mine, so they just don’t show up with no warning.

This is luck? This is being lucky?
This is what it’s all about?

I may be able to get my debt forgiven for student loans. Lucky there? A bit, maybe.
But it means I can’t go back to school. It means I won’t get a degree, ever.
It means I’m trapped in the cycle of having no purpose. 

 

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