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venting in very unfair ways 

i am sick of dealing with my own emotions, i’m sick of dealing with others’ emotions, i’m sick of being sick and of being in more pain on a daily basis than some people ever experience in their lives. i hate it. i hate not knowing whether or not i even have a hope of survival. there is genuine trauma to be found in uncertainty.

all i want is to be okay. or even to know whether or not i’ll be okay at all. i HATE this, so much.

i hate the fact that there is NOTHING i can fucking do.

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venting in very unfair ways 

i never used to understand why people in awful situations would be upset by being told how brave they are, because it came from such a lovely place, but i get it now. it makes me want to scream sometimes.

i am not *brave,* i am *terrified.* i have panic attacks every day and crippling waves of helplessness every time i think about my situation slightly too long. i am all but confined to bedrest, the single most soul-crushing thing in existence.

every time i hear “you’re so brave”, all i can hear at this point is “congratulations on not killing yourself, somehow”. i know where it comes from, and i appreciate it—i do—but it feels mocking, sometimes.

i know this is such an obvious statement it borders on the tautological, but: fuck, dude. being terminally ill *sucks.* >_<

mentally-breaking-down-alone-at-2AM Lyft rides exist in a liminal pocket of space-time where everything is simultaneously too long and not long enough; you won’t be able to return to feeling okay until you’ve returned home and fallen asleep, but you need the ride to last an infinite amount of time because you’re not ready to stop staring out of the window and dissociating as you think about the inevitability of your own demise

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