Dear Chiari,

Dear Chiari,

Fuck you. I want to cry. Not because you hurt me, although that often brings me to tears. No, I want to cry because sometimes the world makes you cry. Elections make me cry. Gilmore Girls make me cry. Sometimes being so mad because there are so many things to do, so many people to help, so many causes to fight, so many people hurting. And I’m tired. And then there are all the Chiari things that make me want to cry, ugly sob, hyperventilate, chest pain kind of cry. Like realizing that I have literally never woken up with energy. I do not know what it feels like to feel physically good. Realizing I am 27 and I may have a life time of this misery, of being a burden, and never knowing what in the next five minutes is going to take away all the courage I was storing, the little drops of hope I was collecting, all to muster up the will to not just live my life, but live it. But I can’t. Because crying makes it worse. Crying turns the headache into a neck ache that is so bad I need to throw up. But I cannot let myself do that, because that makes it hurt too.  I cannot cry because all of the tiny people who live in my head and like to try and pry the two halves apart always, go into over drive. I can’t cry because the prying turns into pain so bad that I try and do it for them. I cannot cry because I do not deserve it. There are people with pain worse than mine. I cannot cry because I want to and I do not know how to get what I want. If I do, if I get to pick of all things I want what I actually get… well then, I want relief. I want to breathe without the anxiety and the terror. I want to feel at home, at home. I want more than this life.

So Dear Chiari.

Fuck you. Because I want to cry, but I can’t. Because if I start I don’t know how I will stop. Fuck you Chiari.

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