I have felt so silenced lately; by worry over the future and anxiety over the day-to-day. I have totally let myself go. It is as if I punish my body for what my eyes are doing, or maybe my eyes have led me to complacency about my overall health. Maybe I am just a lazy fuck who is afraid to leave the house. Or perhaps it is just this moment, this single moment clouded with self disappointment.
When I see myself through sparkling fantasy glasses, I am writing every day and materializing the sheer genius that is my book. I am thin and gregarious and full of light. So why is it that I feel heavy, as if the burden of who I have so long perceived myself to be is keeping me motionless. I sometimes think that I keep myself isolated and unproductive out of a sort of habitual fear; safe in the misery and the dark and the quiet. I get consumed by these dark days and turn to the arms of self-doubt; I chastise myself for not being better, thinner, prettier, for not writing and not living. In my heart I know that all I want to do is write my book and there is even a part of me that can identify with the possibility that it might be really good and that I actually have something to say, but then the old tapes play; the tapes that tell me of my worthlessness and my failure to be anyone other than who I am.
When I was first diagnosed with RP, I had a fleeting thought that it was a punishment for having been so obsessed with my weight for so long. I have believed for most of my life that being overweight meant that I was unlovable and without value. I have been overweight for most of my life. I always thought that people felt sorry for me when I walked into a room and I often turned down invitations because I was ashamed of my body. Then came RP; then came the reality of going blind and dealing with all the day-to-day struggles of being different when all you want is to be invisible, to blend. Isn’t going blind a bigger deal that the extra 20 pounds I can’t ever seem to shed? And does being overweight mean that I am not a good person, not a good writer, not good enough? What the fuck does my weight have to do with my value as a person? And yet I feel worthless, muzzled, squashed. I keep hoping that what I see through the sparkling glasses will become my truth and that I will truly feel the value of who I am. I hope that going blind will help me finally see.