It doesn't happen often, but every now and then a day comes along when I allow myself to think about the things I have lost. Actually, "things" is the wrong word; "all" would be better. Every now and then a day comes along when I allow myself to think about all I have lost.
The truth is that it is currently 2:47 on a Saturday afternoon and I'm in my bed, attempting to catch up on sleep lost for two nights running and I'm feeling sorry for myself. Very sorry for myself.
And so I sit, with my shoulder in pain; the rest of my body on fire from neuropathy. And the sign up there tells me that no one is responsible for this: The Sjogren's. The arthritis. The lupus and neuropathy.
Nor is any one responsible for depression or anxiety around here. This is life as it's dealt, sister. And you have no tears to cry anyway.
