
WhatDoesTheFoxSay?
Hold your head high, and your middle finger higher
- Dec 25, 2020
- 1,152
It's been two months since I left the hospital. I had been hospitalised earlier this year for a lupus flare which inflamed my kidneys.
I tried my best—eating healthy, taking medications as prescribed, meditating and praying. I tried to convince myself that the powers that be had a plan for me, and that there is a purpose for my suffering. Even though there were some mild symptoms, I haven't had any major flare-ups. So far, so good, I thought. That was, up until last week.
I couldn't have felt more out of character all this time. Having started with a relatively high dose of prednisolone, I certainly hope that my sudden positive personality change was not the result of mind-altering drugs like steroids. I remember what it was like before the onset of my illness. I could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, without a care in the world. Now I'm told to avoid this and that. Cut back on salt. Raw, uncooked food is a no-no if you have a compromised immune system. (I couldn't think of a more appropriate use for the term 'incel'–people like us are more or less forced to live out our lives as ascetics.)
Slowly but surely, doubt crept in and my faith started to waver. Nothing, as far as my eyes can see, will deliver us from such overwhelming misery and seemingly meaningless suffering. The nagging voice in my head mocked me for submitting out of fear and pain. The recent deaths of some members, some of whom I was particularly fond of, is demotivating to say the least. Daily reports of mass civilian casualties and brutal atrocities carried out by Russian forces in Ukraine don't help either.
It's not as if my FAITH score wasn't already a negative number anyway—before I was hospitalised I considered myself a staunch misotheist and despised religion. I quarreled with my family. And thought that that'd make the job easier. I wasn't, and still am not, keen on living with a lifelong condition.
After a week of indigestion that didn't go away, I finally snapped. I hit myself, breaking my record of being two months harm-free. I'm not upset or mad at all, and I don't regret what I've done. I saw it coming a mile away. My mental health fell apart like the house of cards it's always been. I don't know if I even want to recover or not, when the former means that I must leave my comfort zone, and break out of those negative thought patterns once and for all.
I tried my best—eating healthy, taking medications as prescribed, meditating and praying. I tried to convince myself that the powers that be had a plan for me, and that there is a purpose for my suffering. Even though there were some mild symptoms, I haven't had any major flare-ups. So far, so good, I thought. That was, up until last week.
I couldn't have felt more out of character all this time. Having started with a relatively high dose of prednisolone, I certainly hope that my sudden positive personality change was not the result of mind-altering drugs like steroids. I remember what it was like before the onset of my illness. I could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, without a care in the world. Now I'm told to avoid this and that. Cut back on salt. Raw, uncooked food is a no-no if you have a compromised immune system. (I couldn't think of a more appropriate use for the term 'incel'–people like us are more or less forced to live out our lives as ascetics.)
Slowly but surely, doubt crept in and my faith started to waver. Nothing, as far as my eyes can see, will deliver us from such overwhelming misery and seemingly meaningless suffering. The nagging voice in my head mocked me for submitting out of fear and pain. The recent deaths of some members, some of whom I was particularly fond of, is demotivating to say the least. Daily reports of mass civilian casualties and brutal atrocities carried out by Russian forces in Ukraine don't help either.
It's not as if my FAITH score wasn't already a negative number anyway—before I was hospitalised I considered myself a staunch misotheist and despised religion. I quarreled with my family. And thought that that'd make the job easier. I wasn't, and still am not, keen on living with a lifelong condition.
After a week of indigestion that didn't go away, I finally snapped. I hit myself, breaking my record of being two months harm-free. I'm not upset or mad at all, and I don't regret what I've done. I saw it coming a mile away. My mental health fell apart like the house of cards it's always been. I don't know if I even want to recover or not, when the former means that I must leave my comfort zone, and break out of those negative thought patterns once and for all.
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