Sunday Bloody Sunday

It's Elemental.

The sebaceous cyst mentioned in that post never did drain on its own. Like my mother who was always trying to prove things she dreamed came true, I'm TERRIBLE at predicting the future.

Instead, on Easter Sunday I finally went to an outpatient clinic and had it surgically drained. Local anesthesia, no stitches and no prescription medication of any kind, but my son described it as "The size of a golf ball" prior to the surgery.

It took approximately two months to recover from this minor outpatient surgery. Just in time to get bashed in the face the day after my birthday.

It's Elemental fails to adequately capture what I was going for, the sense of endless limbo, of not being fully real, physically incarnate, of being an insubstantial creature and not quite of this world.

This world was not designed for me and doesn't work for me and doesn't welcome me. I feel like a figment of my imagination, incapable of proving that I'm real, that anything I've experienced is real, and no longer capable of believing I ever will get to be A REAL GIRL with a REAL life.

Me and Easter Sunday go way back. I attempted suicide on Easter Sunday at age seventeen and a dear relative was brutally assaulted with intent to kill her on Easter Sunday in my twenties. 

I no longer dread Easter Sunday like someone with PTSD. This surgery was a good thing, yet I can't help but feel like Easter Sunday is rearing its ugly head again in my life.

It's been more than six months since I wrote that post. My sense of anticipation of positive change that might give me a life has dissipated and as far as I can tell, I remain in a purgatory I have no hope of escaping.

On the -- cough -- upside, the second draining of that sebaceous cyst has removed any remaining tendency towards suicidal impetus and I haven't really been suicidal in a few years but now that seems like an unimaginable choice.

Which is incredibly STUPID because there is absolutely no hope whatsoever that my life will EVER work, no.