A stranger is coming to take me out.
For an outing.
I don't know what I think about it.
Well I do.
I also wonder how many expletives it takes to be kicked off Google? I think I could do it.
It feels like someone is reaching deep down into all that is me, and ripping it to shreds. Big chunks of my being, pulled out to rest in bloody hands. A tad melodramatic I know. But it does.
I'm not comfortable with any part of it. I feel my stomach churning as I type. I can hear the "But Michelles...." already. And honestly, the "But Michelle...." folk can stick it. Two days ago I turned 42 and today someone is coming to take me on an outing.
Because I can't go out alone.
Because I am reliant on others to leave my house.
Because it's just another marker for the level of shit my body is immersed in.
Because I'm angry and shitty and tired.
I can go anywhere I like. The local shopping center keeps being brought up. Because heading to Target with a stranger is up there with internal exams, on the fun scale.
And small talk. Small talk with a stranger. Might as well break out the speculum.
I want to go to the gallery. I don't want to talk. I don't want to interact. I want to look at art at my own pace.
I want to not go arse up with a stranger and have to deal with the crap that goes with it.
I want to go and not have to explain why I'm in the chair.
I want to pretend that I'm there alone. I want to pretend I am still independent.
But a stranger is coming to take me out on an outing, because I can't do it alone.
And I am reminded
just how fucked my body is.