I turned 37 (in a row!? nsfw)  on the 13th, but I feel like 50.  Medical bills are adding up, and my body is subtracting.  It doesn’t seem to matter how much weight I lose (70 pounds since February), my body still rebels against me.

I know that I shouldn’t kvetch, but I’m a Jew and that’s my birthright.

To summarize: my ins is refusing to cover 2 meds that they used to, without which I will die.  My endocrine system is fucked. I have a toothache, and I can’t find a dentist that takes my ins.  I injured my knee swimming in November and was misdiagnosed.  Now I have to go in for an MRI to search for ligament damage.  I’m severely bipolar, with anxiety and panic attacks that induce vomiting. I have asthma. I have sleep apnea, but the cpap machine causes panic attacks (having to rip off the mask to throw up is not pleasant. I have the beginnings of Barret’s esophagus (which will eventually cause esophageal cancer, one of the most lethal cancers).  My left foot sometimes goes numb, and I have a B12 deficiency.

Many of these things I’ve lived with all my life, and I have come to terms with.  I was diagnosed with Bipolar syndrome by age 14.  They put me on Lithium, which I think damaged my endocrine system.  I always had asthma.  Everything else is a brand new fucking experience.

This is why I throw myself into my writing.  This is why I aim for a book a year.  I want to leave something behind when I die, something that people can enjoy, that will live on beyond me.  But one book isn’t enough.  Ten might not be enough.  I will never be satisfied with what I’ve done, and I feel like I have a short while to do it.

Valerie died when she was 35.  She was a brilliant writer, with who knows how many great stories still left inside of her.  She was working on her 3rd novel when she died, and it will remain unfinished.  I keep putting off publishing her anthology because I am selfish and driven.  I keep saying “when I finish this chapter, or this book, or whatever.”  One day I am going to die and I hope that it’s not before I get her shit together.  Her work means more to me than my own, so why do I keep putting it off?

No matter how much I may want to, I am not ready to join her yet.  I have miles to go before I sleep.