Uncertainty. Not knowing what to expect. This is a running joke written by the writer of my life. They’re on a typewriter in the rain, chuckling quietly to themselves every time they throw in a lupus or a polyp or the death of a friend.
They laugh and I live it.
Uncertainty is inherent in my diseases, including the disease of general life. We all live with it. It hovers above us all. It just feels so ever-present to me. It’s like a cloud above me, ready to rain down at any point. And I ignore it, trying to get on with my day, but it’s there and I’ve forgotten my umbrella yet again.
Ugh, does this even make any sense?
My therapist suggested uncertainty as a blog topic, so I’m trying to write but it’s so hard.
The words are stilted and I’ve been working on this for nearly 45 minutes. I go make coffee, come back. Get breakfast, come back. Write a sentence, feel nauseated, but keep coming back.
Keep coming back, Kaarina.
Keep coming back.