The Trouble with Becoming Ugly Later in Life

What the fuck did I do in a past life to make this one so pathetically awful?
How does one person get all the lumps?
I have survived the divorce and untimely parental death.
I have survived an incredibly dangerous and abusive relationship.
I have been alone for years and have hated every millisecond of it. I am the person who couldn't stand being home alone so much that if I did end up in the house alone for some reason, when my mom or my sister arrived back at the ranch, I would follow them around annoyingly and relentlessly out of sheer happiness that I wasn't up in there alone anymore.
I have no money to speak of.
I search every day for a reason to be light-hearted, for that one tiny spark that will turn the prism and allow me to feel something different, something other than "crushed."
I exercise and I plow through and I commit and I do these things because I anticipate that at some point, they will send me into the state of peaceful mind that I want more than anything else.
And regardless of what I do to carry on, more dirt is piled on my spiritual grave, making it that much harder for me to claw my way out.

What now?
How about accidentally pulling the bumper loose from my brand new car?
How about some sore on the dog's leg that is so far unidentified?
How about whatever it is that is racking my system NOT being easy and being, more likely due to one of the following three things:
1. Lupus
2. Rheumatoid arthritis
3. Congestive heart failure.

What the hell?
What am I paying for here?
I have no joy anymore, does anybody get that?
Or care?
I mean, I am naturally upset by this development. It's not like I will tragically die early leaving a small, young family and a dresser full of the beautiful memories that make a life worthwhile.
No, if I were to die young, I would likely be found by my landlord after work asks her to stop by and see if something has happened because I've been no-call, no-show for a day.
My dog would be guarding my rotting, swamp-cooler grody remains and my cat would be trying to eat my face.
No, not my face because my face has a pox on it that causes it to be misshapen and splotched with angry cystic acne.
My cat would eat from my belly which is possibly the only remaining area on my that isn't either ravaged or slated to be ravaged in the very near future so naturally, The Black-Hearted Albino would take it upon herself to ruin that for me.
It's the way things go for me, dig?

If my heart were to give out, I would owe thousands of dollars in medical expenses and basically, my mom would give a shit and that's... it.
And that wouldn't be so bad, you know, if I didn't grow up as a pretty girl.
It wouldn't have to be so much of a tragedy if I hadn't degraded into this swollen and stuff shell of rashes and depression caused by becoming ugly when I was once so godamn pretty.

I hate hating pictures of myself.
I hate not being able to see my ankles.
I hate that I gained 4 pound of water weight in 1.5 weeks.
I hate this.
I really hate that when it happened the first time, while I was still really young and really connected and really in a supportive place that nobody, fucking NOBODY tried to figure it out.
I didn't know better.
The doctor told me to stop wearing a lot of turtle-necks and that the joint pain was due to Reynaud's Syndrome - "everybody has it, your finger get stiff in the winter."
I was 25 and there was time to do things differently, you know?
There was time for this to become the tragedy that it's about to morph into.
I might have not spent so long swelling and so much time thinking that the hives on my bloated legs and bloated arms was because of something I ate.
I might have not become so ulgified with the years of whatever this is slowly, slowly eating away at the vivrant health I had in my childhood and adolescence.
I am TERRIFIED that I'll never get that back - not my youth, but my physical attractiveness. It's not at all what it was - I am a SHELL, mother-fuckers, a SHELL with actual rot on my face and with water adding pounds to my stressed out frame each week.

Had I known about this when it first was happening to me, I might have pulled my shit together with regard to what's important and what's not.
I would have quit smoking a lot earlier and I would not feel like a party-pooper when I say that I hardly ever drink anymore or that 2 cocktails is a breaking point these days when I know it used to be 5 or 6 before I would have to choose: Happily to bed and early to rise? or Drunken carrying on and merrily away we go!"

So until I know what the fuck is gnawing on me and then when I do, once I figure out what fucked up Karma got me here to a place where not only am I all alone but also am I alone and possibly quite sick on the verge of a heart attack or then degenerative disfigurement of my hands but I am also some freak-show of illusionary ugliness (it's not real! it's just disease! I'll be pretty again!) and I'm in pain and I'm really, really, really alone.

Jesus, I can't even remember the last time anyone hugged me and like, MEANT it.
Like you know, in a way that's all, "Dude. It so doesn't matter how much of a mess you are. You're a freak but I love you lots."

arizonasarah at 2:20 p.m.

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