Yes, you may have seen me at some parades, especially during the day the first weekend and the second Saturday.
No, I am not “feeling better.” “Feeling better” is a fucking tease. AS in general is fairly miserable. Even if my pain drops a point or 2, I’m still compromised, exhausted and uncomfortable. The difference between 8 and 6 is real but that doesn’t mean 6 is any fucking fun.
And yes, you did see me at Muses.
Yes, I had some people over and cooked. It was joyful. I made three king cakes this Carnival season, each one a crowd-pleaser and talked about long afterwards.
No, I’m not “doing better these days.” I can’t wait until “better” or “those days” to have some joy in my life, to enjoy one of my favorite times of year, to see people I love to see and never do because I am sick and they are not [or they also are], to wear a tank top on a sunny day, to get a new tattoo [or 3].
“Chronic” means every day, every single day, every single fucking day. Pain-wise, this is day 2226 for me.
As a PDF.
I generally live between 7-8 with occasional journeys to 9 and 9.5. I rail against antidepressants but “have” to take them because of that whole “severe personality change” thing—in my case, that “change” is depression, then depression with irritability, then depression with near-catatonic despair.
So no, I can’t wait until I’m “better,” whatever the fuck that means in terms of AS, to do __. The list of things I don’t do will always be longer so don’t let the short list fool your ass. An outing or physical expenditure doesn’t mean I’m “better” or “cured.” It means I’m on an outing or expending some physical energy because I want.