I’ve been home sick from work for a week. Something that felt like a flu turned into a stomach bug, and as a result I’ve spent the last 7 days either in bed or on the couch. All in all it wasn’t so bad. Mostly it was frustrating–feeling entitled to feeling better and then recognizing that for some there is no “better”. Very easily, it seemed, this could be a new normal.

That was the thought that made me get up this morning and gather all my work things. If this isn’t a flu, could I ask any less of myself than Dad did? And isn’t it the job of the living to tackle life’s problems, no matter how hesitant we may be?

This illness has been like a fog, slowly burning off in gray increments so slight they’re easy to miss. But I am sure it is lifting, as I am sure of the invisible tethers of identity politics that bind me to these murky legacies that entreat me to make of them what I will within the span of what might be allowed by my own indoctrinated mind.


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e lewis

I'm a bibliophile with a love of social justice theory living in the Pacific North West trying to figure life out.

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