I distinctly remember learning how that's one of the most misinterpreted lines in Shakespeare. Most often, people assume it means that Duke Orsino of Illyria is referring to his love of music. It's quoted on posters and t-shirts and barbeque aprons, etc. They think, "Oh, a Shakespearean quote about music; that'll make me seem cultured." However, few realize that Orsino continues with, "Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, the appetite may sicken, and so die." Perhaps some of you aren't as familiar with Shakespeare's turn of phrase (and frankly, I don't blame you, but I'll admit that Twelfth Night is my favorite), but what he means is this: if music is the fuel for love, play it so much that I'll become utterly disgust with the even the faintest idea of falling in love. See, it's not exactly a flattering quotation.
I've been thinking about it a lot lately. No, I don't recite Shakespeare in my free time; I'm not a pretentious ball of crazy..most of the time. I've just always resonated with that idea---overkill for the sake of self-preservation. It's a tactic with which I'm very familiar. I don't do well with sudden change or surprise or fluctuation of plans. You know, all the stuff most mature people handle with extraordinary ease. So, if there's even the slightest possibility of the worst case scenario, I feel the need to emotionally plan for this by running it over and over and over and over, treating it as truth. I practical suffer through an emotional breakdown in case I run into an occasion where I might have an emotional breakdown. It's not healthy. It's not mature. It's nowhere near normal. However, it's what I do. Judge how you will.
Unfortunately, this is how I'm currently dealing with all the festering mess that is my reproductive system. Yes, that seems a very harsh phrase when referring to one's own body, but that exactly how it feels. I saw the photos from my surgery; nightmarish fleshy corridors, revealing all sorts of wicked-looking adhesions and scarring, and not to mention a unwelcome, bulbous white mass in the middle of it.
Needless to say, I haven't been the most warm and open person in the last few months. I closed off from a lot of people, even those close to me. I've sullen and listless and all of the things I don't like to be. But I think I'm on the rebound, even though I think this one may be difficult to shake. Optimism is something I'm working on. Nobody likes to read about emotionally compromised young women, right?
Except that weird Twilight phenomenon. In my opinion, Bella Swan should have read some Adrienne Rich feminist poetry and maybe she would've gotten bitten in the ass by some self-confidence. I guess I just prefer my heroines a little more self-sufficient.
Once again, I digress.
Surgery most certainly eased my mind. Recovery is going more slowly than I expected, though. I thought I would be up and running (literally) by last Thursday. You know, as week later. Apparently, that was a little much to ask. I'm still sore and it's Saturday night, over a week and a half later. I'm getting terribly impatient. I'm starting to suspect that my muscles are starting to atrophy from sleeping and resting all the time.The worst thing about recovery is that I've been waiting for so long, years, in fact, to feel good/better/normal again. I've been craving a future where I'm not terrified to eat meat, to drink red wine, to suffer through another episode of relentless pain, another missed opportunity to start a family. I just want to know if the surgery has made that possible, if I'm going to be able to feel like my old self again or if I'll have to carve out a new sense of normal.
Lately, all my prayers have seemed void of thanksgiving. I feel like I'm incessantly nagging God, for relief, for a miracle, and he's probably tired of hearing it, considering that my life isn't all that bad. I could have AIDS, I could have bone cancer, I could be homeless and starving. I'm not; I've got a comfortable American life, with miniscule needs. Frankly, I would like to think God would pay more attention those issues than mine. They're a little more pressing when it comes to the state of humanity.
But it doesn't stop me from hoping that there is a miracle in store for me. Hope is all I have, I guess. And, when faced with the loss of hope, a person can have a pretty severe psycho-physiological reaction. You know, like the "ickies."
I hope. I hope. I hope. To stay sane, to stay optimistic, to stave off the "ickies," I hope.
And I'll keep hoping.
Sorry. I'm just in one of those moods. I'll cheer up and post some fun stuff soon.
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