I want to agree, to nod and smile, to say, “I can’t believe it’s already May!” I do say it sometimes, in fact, as if it were expected of me as a human, a millennial in a fast-paced world.
Yet time has slowed the past few months, escaping me even as I’m aware of its presence. I tell time by half-empty IV bags and doctor’s appointments and which “Lemonade” track is coming up next.
Unloveably boring, it is. I finally found the words to explain how I’ve been feeling. My life news is limited to the laughable LSAT answer choice I encountered on Thursday (“The fact that Roger wanted companionship does not by itself explain why he adopted 10 cats.”) and the religious experience of live-streaming new Beyoncé while under a unit of Benadryl.
It is when I want desperately to show off, to write about a shiny new adventure or personal challenge or endeavor that I shroud the turbulent, beautiful art of existing.
Friends’ travel blogs trapped me in a faraway world of expectation, a physical and emotional departure from the infusion room’s muted colors, from the Velcro sound of the blood-pressure cuff extracting maroon fibers from my sweater. I’ve long championed life writing as a welcome genre for the epic and exciting adventures as well as the moments of monotony and quiet epiphanies.
Sometimes I still forget it.
I found myself in college. In Europe. In my last relationship. “I found myself in an oversized pea-green chair in the infusion room up the street,” feels, somehow, inadequate. Yet here I am, reflecting on the patience and discipline and resilience I’ve gained in the past few weeks and months.
Debilitating anemia and celiac disease have rendered me helpless and exhausted this year, but there is a quiet power in getting reacquainted with the value of my own story, with an understanding of autobiography that embraces life’s oversized, pea-green chairs.