I have no idea why I went looking for mortality rates for people with the defective gene I have, but I did. And I already seem to have beaten the mean age of death (think it’s 36). Now, I am always the person up for a challenge, the person trying to prove people wrong, the person seeking facts to support my viewpoint. I constantly comment on social media articles with links to other articles to support my assertions, but something about seeing that number written down kind of fucked me up. I mean, JESUS of COURSE I am dying young, but it’s literally only over the past few weeks where I see the light for the life, and I feel a slight bewildered and yes, a tiny bit hopeless seeing those numbers on paper. It’s like, shit….I am most assuredly winding down and my opportunities to get what I thought life would be able to lend me are definitely slipping through my fingers.

I am not giving up, no, but with the information out there, I am an anomaly already with the sheer number of dissections and strokes I have survived. And the brain is where I have to be wary of given the tendencies for people with my condition to have brain arteries pop and blow leaks. I think that my recognition of my disease at a young age helped kind of set me on my path and really limit my expectations. I’ve mentioned this before, but I definitely never tried to work too hard to have much in this country aside from a good time, as anything truly fantastic would have already been taken away from me in terms of property or a house. Hell, I don’t even have a wedding ring as that is also something I twisted in my brain would be an asset for the keeping. I have no savings account as I am not insane. Right now I have $40 in my checking account, that’s how great I am haha.

So this dream of living in a place where I could afford healthcare and stuff people like to have I think is slowly fading into an imagined impossibility. I really don’t think I will live long enough for people to see Americans as worthy of healthcare without multiple millions behind them. I think I am going to die before any of that comes to be here which is not a comforting thing at all. And to get to the Netherlands is likely an impossibility without a large lottery win. It’s okay, if you remember, one of my best friends from NYC spent some time telling me on this blog the Netherlands didn’t want me, and if a friend actually does that, how likely would it be for strangers to welcome me? Not very likely.

I think being high and drunk all the time protected my brain in other ways. With a chemical crutch to blur out my reality, that seemed to be enough for me to be okay, to not cope as it were. Now that I am fully all there, not only are my dreams insane, but I realize that was my coping over taking any anti-depressants. I know, right, depressants somehow made me ok. This is not to say I am now looking to take these medicines to deal with my reality. I am not, but I know why people take them now, because it is ugly, this world. I mean, yeah, given context I did realize how ugly it and people were, but now I see why people want that extra bump.

Honestly—I miss Don. Not being touched in weeks has really hurt me in multiple ways. I hope any of you who read this going through this or take care of someone going through this realize two things. Touch is comfort. So is humor, and not having him here to touch me or make me laugh every morning. It hurts. I cry on a dime now. I cry a lot, in fact. I pray I can get a few last years of peace, but…I was promised nothing in this life. I wouldn’t be alive without modern medicine, and there are some people who would suggest…well, that I deserve nothing given natural selection should have taken me out already.

But, fuck those people. Have a sweet one, friends.