I swear, y'all, I'm an ass kicker trapped inside a Hashimoto's having body. So, I need the energy equivalent of a plastic surgeon, I guess. (Have recently become addicted to Nip/ Tuck on DVD and need Season 2 stat!) "Alright, H+P, what don't you like about yourself?" the kind doc will say. And I'll speak my truth. That's with a capital T, of course. And I'll hear about the procedure, the risks, the recovery time and I'll say this is really what I want. I won't be myself until I change what I've got going on right now. And the staff psychologist will say, "I think she's a good candidate because she was living as an ass kicker for most of her life until recently." And I'll think damn straight.
And somewhere along the way, someone will want me to understand that it's easier to dig a hole than it is to build a pole. And I'll scrunch my eyebrows together and try to figure out how that belongs in the analogy I'm running with. (Don't poke your eye out running with that thing.) Anyway, this is how I envision it- going under anesthesia, waking up to a somewhat "uncomfortable recovery" (that's doc speak for hurts like hell), and then going on my merry way despite the shocked looks and rude whispers of those around me who just don't understand who I really am. Who I really have been this whole time. That I'm only doing this to make things right. To make my outside match my inside.
Ah, well. I spoke to a friend today who pointed out that when I speak of the future, I sound a little afraid, I guess, and much more passive probably about my possibilities than I ever did before. I explain that I am and I amn't afraid, really. Hashimoto's has ruined my good time. Or at least the good time I thought was mine by rights. Now, I have to adjust my thinking to a much more zen kind of thing where sometimes I'm great and sometimes I'm dragging. Gonna have to wrap my head around "success" as an uneven or patchy proposition- or shall I say a fluid idea? Gonna have to figure out what I'll do for work that won't bore me to tears when I've got energy or kill me when I don't.
Hmmmmm. Romance novel writer, perhaps. It would make me laugh and could make me wealthier than I might reasonably deserve to be for exhausting a long list of euphemisms. I think about the make me laugh part and I like it. Plus, it would allow me to work wherever I am. I could travel a lot, which would make moi happy. Longmire can do my covers. Yep, I've solved my problems in a doctorless fashion.
And that'll do, pig.