Fat Thigh-roid Woes: The Apathetic Arms of Absurdity.
I’m going to preface this by saying the following:
The following might have you balking, and angry with me. I am bringing this to the table to open debate, but I am bringing it with love.
I know it’s hard not to dwell on the plethora of symptoms when we’re sick. That one fucking little butterfly controls so much of what goes on in our bodies, it’s amazing how the range of symptoms varies so dramatically we don’t know what’s coming next.
Last week I was walking around with my camera and happened upon a woman and her son.
The reason homeless people make killer subjects is NOT because it’s easier to get a great shot of someone down and out.
It’s because they’re not afraid to show you who they are. I’ve mentioned this before, but if you take a nice looking camera out into the world and start snapping away – people start posing. Guts start getting sucked in, hips get shaken around, and pleasant looks fall across faces.
This is what every photographer DOES NOT WANT. Homeless people have reached a point where their body language just says “f it, snap away”.
Her name is Michael Terry. Her story?
“I was hit by a bus. Twice.”
Now, I’m not here to try and to evoke sympathy or pity for her. I’m here to tell you….
Shit fucking happens.
Michael Terry made that clear with her blunt and matter-of-fact, “oh fucking well” attitude. Of course her situation might make you want to put your own thyroid disease issues into perspective, but the perspective I’m coming from is not “at least I’m not homeless” it’s more of a…
You have thyroid disease? Oh well, pick yourself up and keep chugging along. SHIT FUCKING HAPPENS.
My Graves symptoms, and the lingering issues is turning that “WHY ME?” into a “Oh well. Shit happens.”
Go ahead, you can start rolling your eyes and telling me off right now. I don’t mind, but at least make it productive.
There’s something raw and healthy about turning that “WHY???” around. I’ve moved on from my former existential crisis into the Apathetic Arms of Absurdity. I am embracing the phrase “no rhyme or reason” like a long lost friend.
Think about all you do to combat your disease. Medications, doctor visits, dietary changes…the list goes on. Once you reach a certain point in maintaining some semblance of health, what else can you fucking do besides pull out a wand, dance naked in a forest, and say a spell?
There is a comfort in thinking the universe has a fucked up and sick sense of humor.
Of course I felt badly for Michael Terry, but if she doesn’t feel pity herself…then I have no business pitying her.
I don’t want pity from people who know I have Graves. When I let you know I’m sick and dealing with a disease, it’s simply to warn you my emotions might make me eat your face off. NOT because I need an “aww you poor thing”. Let’s get that straight.
Guess what? Remember how my hair was growing back in a few months ago? Turns out, that was ONE. BIG. FAT. COCK. TEASE.
It’s FALLING out again, in clumps.
Fuck it, shit happens.