I love the head that has caused me everyday, unrelenting, ridiculous pain for the past almost 5 years. That same head is the place my hair--my favorite part of me--grows. And that is nothing I take for granted. Especially after my medicine tried to take that hair from me.
I love the teeth that are yellow from years of antibiotics, and all of the other poison I've put past them. Those same teeth are there when I smile. And I like to smile, smiling's my favorite. (If you read that in your buddy the elf voice, good work.)
I love the chest that is marked with scars from its days working as an entryway for too many medicines, the chest that holds a heart that doesn't always like to work as smoothly as it's supposed to. That same chest holds the heart that allows me to love, to love a lot of things, and to love hard.
I love the hands that swell up, and hurt, and can't always bend to hold the things I need them to hold. Those same hands allow me to write these words that you're reading. And that makes me happier, and gives me more purpose, than you know.
I love the legs that don't always hold me up well, the legs that don't always like to participate in the activities that I need them to. Those same legs allow me to get to doctors appointments on my own, they allow me to go for a drive when I need to clear my head, and they allow me to go out and do things when the rest of my body agrees. They keep me moving forward, literally and figuratively.
I love the brain that forget words, and places, and names, and makes me feel like I'm waking around in a marshmallow. That same brain got me through college, and gave me a reason--a reason to push through this part of my life to get to where I want to be. And that same brain remembers a life before this, a life that I want back.
I love the eyes that sometimes forget they have a job, the eyes that cause me pain and make the world a little harder to navigate when they aren't working properly. Those same eyes brought me the doctor that cares and believes in me more than any other doctor ever has. Those same eyes allow me to see the beauty in the world around me even when there is no beauty inside of my fight. (Plus they gave me cute glasses!)
I love the mouth that sometimes jumbles my words, and holds a tongue that I'm starting to think is even allergic to itself. That same mouth speaks the words that tell the people around me that I love them, tells the doctors what they need to know to help me, and helps me spread the word about the ugly things this disease can do to you.
It may not look the way I want it to. It definitely doesn't look the way the world wants it to. It usually doesn't work the way it's supposed to. It hurts. It always hurts. But it's holding itself together. Somehow. Piece by piece.
And it's mine.
It was mine before it became this way; it was mine before it was taken over. And when this battle is over, it will still be mine. It's been here all along (give or take a little bit of it). And it's seen absolutely everything I've been through. It's beat up, it's scarred, and it's worn down.
But it's mine.
And that's pretty cool if you ask me.
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