I waste a lot of time wishing that I didn’t know I had HD.
As soon as I learned I was positive, I wished I hadn’t heard.
During the months that followed, when I decided whether I was going to stay in bed forever or attempt to live, I wished I didn’t know.
And even now, years later, after it feels like I’ve crawled on my hands and knees over shards of glass to attain some semblance of an ordinary life, I hate knowing the truth.
Why? Because ever since I found out, I have not NOT thought about it.
Before I found out, I guess I must have had a background hum of thoughts that assured me of who I was. Something that provided a backbone for the meat of living. I remember when I was a little girl, going through a period of recognizing me and realizing that I was me and that I was a separate entity from any other entity and how cool that was. And later, beneath the tapes that developed through life’s trials and errors, I had that base note. That bass note. That assurance that I was me. It was comforting in that it was intransigent. Unchangeable.
Forever and ever. AMEN.
But then this new reality overtook me, all the way down to my frame.
It replaced the small still voice.
The one so subtle that it lies underneath my inner monologue.
That part of me was killed by knowing my enemy.
Now, because I did not grow up with it, the truth leaves me chronically uncomfortable. Like always having to wear shoes that don’t fit. It sounds shrill and impatient in my head.
Meditation does not stifle it. Prayer doesn’t drown it. Screaming only makes it louder.
Because knowing is now a part of me.
There is nothing I can do about it except accept that I will not live a second without being reminded by myself of the person that I really am.
There’s a lot to be said for denial.