Humor in dying, because THERE ARE NO TIME MACHINES!

I had just finished lunch with my daughter casually watching tv thinking, I should try to write something. My anxiety and I were discussing the terms of me being capable of doing anything today. Writing was not going to happen said my anxiety. You don’t know how to set up this blog correctly, no one is going to ever read it, and you have nothing to write about today! Oh you fucktard anxiety! I am not writing for everyone else. I am doing it for me! Look lady, Back to the Future is on. I’ve seen that 1,234 times. 1,234 that’s pretty fucking specific isn’t it? Jeebuz anxiety! I’ve seen it okay! Look at your daughter. Wow, Maggie is staring at the tv in amazement as Michael J. Fox plugs his guitar into the giant amp at the beginning of the movie. She’s just staring at him, kinda like I did the first time I watched the movie. He was a fox. Oh my goodness is my daughter thinking he’s hot? Is that why she is watching this? Yeah see, we can just sit here and chill. You wouldn’t want to deprive her of the foxness of Fox would you? Plus, it’s a pretty good movie even when you have seen it 1,234 times. I reluctantly agreed with my anxiety that it would be a good idea to just rest and watch tv instead of trying to write. It was settled.

Leaning back into the couch settling in and the phone rings. It’s dad just calling in to check on us and to see if I had been writing. I explained that today I was not going to even think about it. Hanging up the phone I notice the file on the screen of my phone that says OUTLINE. Anxiety creeps in to remind me it is only an outline why and how could I possibly write anything worthy from a stupid outline. I open it. The very first line says humor in dying because, there are no time machines. Was Back to the freakin Future a sign? I grabbed up my laptop and well here we are. All of us. Anxiety too.

Here’s where shit gets real. Real…er. I have Multiple Sclerosis along with some kind of horrible anxiety. After nearly seven years of being sick and having the strange not so evident signs of the disease I was finally given a  diagnosis. There it was, right on the table third MRI and the doctor telling my husband and I “You have Multiple Sclerosis.” Brock came to his knees in front of me as my mind and sight became what I recall kind of washing machine feeling. I was fuzzy and light-headed and swooshy. Then anxiety came in and we just started laughing. AH HAHA you got fucking MS Rach. You ain’t got no brain tumor and you aren’t fucking crazy! I told you so. All these years and you didn’t want to believe me, even tried to get rid of me. Its gonna be ok. Seriously on the inside I did laugh. I figured after all the poking, prodding, medicines and physical episodes this WAS something I could handle and it was not going to kill me. I finally had control. I had direction.

Ugh, okay Rach, cmon you got to write today. Come watch tv with me. I am going to give you one of the sh’s! (That is either the SHakes or SHits).