healthy,

It's hard not to get depressed. It's hard not to feel beaten down, and repeatedly. It's hard not to feel corrupted, and ashamed, and lame (in every sense of that word). (You don't actively think the phrase "damaged goods," but it lives around there somewhere.) It's hard not to worry about the money, even though and especially because it isn't coming from you. It's hard not to entertain the grand Job-like delusions. It's hard not to think of the worst, this could be cancer, this could be death this time. And then it's hard to deal with the actual smallness of the problem. It's hard not to feel bitter, martyred, proud, stupid, like you're making a big deal out of nothing, like somewhere someone (or some thing) is laughing. It's hard not to blame your body. It's hard not to dwell on or try to qualify the psychological damage such pointless, relentless stupidness inflicts on you day after day. It's hard to imagine being healthy, what it would be like, what it was like, not because you can't imagine it, but because it hurts more than the physical pain to dream about that life (that life of eating what you want when you want it, of getting diseases they can name, that you actually get over in a matter of days, of not having to explain your medical awkwardness to everyone once you pass a certain point of intimacy, etc.). It's all hard. But I'm trying.